"molehill" poems
You're all bark and no bite
How could something wrong feel so right
Wish we could've had just one night
But it wasn't in the cards
I'm alone here while you need space
Stuck between a rock and a hard place
It's the closest thing to any embrace
That I'll ever feel
Whether mountain or molehill
Tears are falling in my milk spill
I swallow down another hard pill
From my half empty glass
Vicarious atonement
Another happiness postponement
Damaged heart and stolen moments
Back to square one
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
If I were a witch; I'd cast a spell,
And put an end to lies men tell.
I wouldn't enchant their ****** nose,
But the place from where ***** flows.
I'd raise my wand, purse my lips,
And call the World to witness this,
*"When men lie without a flinch
Their ***** shall shorten by an inch
And if they try to spin a tale
Their ***** shall, decrease in scale
And if they raise a deceitful stink
Lo and behold, their **** will shrink
Every time they make up lies
Their ***** will contract in size"*
Making a molehill out of a mountain,
Will affect their natural fountain.
And planet Venus in the sky will look bigger than the ***** in their fly.
They will have to altogether give up lying if they don’t want their manhood dying
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
Make a mountain of math homework
seem merely a molehill.
Lay down the laws
of long division.
Teach yoga when we yawned,
sing loud when we slept.
Become a fellow fourth grader;
be the class clown.
Tie severed friendships
broken on the playground;
add new knots.
Be the judge,
but appoint us as jury.
Ease my fears
as the sky grew dark.
Let us listen to the radio
as New York burned.
Dare us to dig deeper, illuminate
our minds. Respect
our voices, accept our flaws.
And above all else,
let us teach her.
-With apologies to Elizabeth Homes
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 1:59 AM UTC
Do birds question their existance?
Do bees think they're alive?
Does the walrus fight the resistance?
Do horses just survive?
Does the grass give a rat's ***
Do the trees even care?
Do the shrubs think the bushes are crass?
Do the flowers curse and swear?
Do the rolling plains feel plain?
Do the mountains feel like a molehill?
Does the ocean just go through the motion?
Do the valleys lay in alleys like road ****
Does the Earth feel worth?
Does Uranus feel hanus?
Does Jupiter hate its girth?
Our Universe is the worst!
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound
With joy; and often, an intruding guest,
I watched her secret toil from day to day—
How true she warped the moss to form a nest,
And modelled it within with wood and clay;
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue;
And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,
A brood of nature’s minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.
2.4k
If someone tells you they like you
but you don't like them back the same way
how do you let them down gently
what are the words you should say
Do you shoulder the blame for the way that you feel
Do you tell them its you and not them
Do you tell thm they are just moving too fast
that their feelings for you are too prem
Or is it like pulling a plaster
just a swift yank and then it is done
it'll hurt like hell for a minute
but at least they weren't shot with a gun
And maybe I'm making a mountain
from a molehill that doesn't exist
maybe they want to take back what they said
now wouldn't that be a twist
Perhaps they are struggling to tell you
that you're not who they thought you were
that maybe they were a tad hasty
that their words were a mite premature
It seems that whenever I set out
to do the right thing I am cursed
to hurt those whos feelings I sought to protect
to end up making things worse
So forgive me if I have ever
caused you pain or caused you distress
it was only ever my intention
to do what I thought was best
And now as this play draws to an end
and reaches the final act
time will tell if we managed
to get out with our friendship intact.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 9:17 PM UTC
The frog half fearful jumps across the path,
And little mouse that leaves its hole at eve
Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;
My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,
Till past, and then the cricket sings more strong,
And grasshoppers in merry moods still wear
The short night weary with their fretting song.
Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,
Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bank
The yellowhammer flutters in short fears
From off its nest hid in the grasses rank,
And drops again when no more noise it hears.
Thus nature’s human link and endless thrall,
Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.
2.3k
Generally, only more specific than that?
Please, if that is not too vague.
Whispering assumptions touch my face, and
cold fingers, like winter wind solidified into
ghosts and a smell that lingers in
innocent nostrils.
Enchanted by cancerous eyes that are
too much tombstone.
To fresh, the memory of decaying
melodies played by heartstrings in my innermost
love song,
I can not bare another death, another season laid to waste under
indifference, feigned or otherwise.
I could not handle another moment banished
into forgot exiles and requested reprieves from "reality."
But I grit my teeth to this
fabricated adversity,
this hypochondriac's molehill.
I will tell the devils to be silent,
to watch me grow wings,
not wings of angels or bats,
but wings of a lonely songbird who
relentlessly searches for harmony
in this dissonant world.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
Born a boy; now a man of men.
A son of Omu-Aran becoming the
Bishop of the world, who his mom
Nurtured and cultured by his granny.
A benign brook belittled yesterday
Has turned to a blessed flowing sea;
Small molehill becomes an Everest
In the sight of many a jeering enemy.
Bishop, God called to ascendancy
By favour: getting glory from grace.
To make his humble name legendary,
Heaven did set him apart for the race.
David Oyedepo, like David the king,
Is truly "a man after God's heart":
Of his goodness and love does he sing;
His passion he has from the very start.
Jesus Christ, the Bible and Faith alone
His breath and bread are; anointed
Books and tapes his ice cream cone.
In all circumstances he's oft elated.
Life of meaning isn't in number told,
But by deeds yonder the present:
All men were born; few do die
Great--for most live for the moment.
A diamond impact, like Papa's, will
For ever shine like stars in the sky,
Which the entire kingdom of the devil
Can never obscure its effulgence high.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
If you listen with the ears of women or of devils,
but have hate, you are only a muffled drum or a muted trumpet.
If you don't have the ignorance and can't fathom all known things
and no ignorance, and if you don't have faithlessness which cant move a molehill,
and if you don't have hate,
You are everything.
If you take all you lack from the rich and take under your spirit of ease that you never boast of,
but have hate,
you lose everything.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:54 AM UTC
.. Awake oh world..awake 2015.. This is not a dream, a public announcement!!An endorsement of fiery destruction will reign upon earthly cities. A crossing of no pity. For twas predicted long ago...
Thy lands will be cleansed as snow. Howl and moan/ for trees will be scorched a twist! Thy eye sockets wilt be ripped and headache wilt be a molehill for thou!!!
Banks wilst crumble, babies shalt mumble as in Noah's day!!!what's wrong? No loving songs, to the devil you'll make a parade!!!!
Thou clown of display, skies will grey and stars shalt be fiercesome and almighty as thy green greedied dollar!!!
Here's thy collar, oh don't forget thy new world chip, for all younger days and innocence you'll wish thou couldst return!!!! Return to thy own dust oh man!!!for its lives thou took, now thy life to be given!!! No feast of thanksgiving! Can't thou read the scribes writing?
Blind thou hath been for over 2000 years, stack thy gold corrupted by moss in thy underground cellar!!!fighter, yeller!
Cop brutality shalt get much worse! Violence will between thou sister and brother! Canst thou not changeth thine own way? Mummified curse indeed! Pigfeed you've become to ones who blow the horns! Watch out/move.....don't get burned!!!!volcanic destruction will match quakes to rattle thy mortars, for climatic borders will be bound by new order charisma!!!!hope!!hope!!the crowd yells to their thorned crown king!!!2015 the year of the blood moon! The year of thine own final sting!!!!
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
The probability of life itself is unpredictable
For I can’t extract your mind or heart to decode
Likelihood of possibilities in measurable quotient
For I can’t retract a past gone by to encode
Continuums of even chances and certainty
The toss of the toasted dime, the weigh of sides
Slashed slide all smashed and thrown in mines
Fallibilism of my indefinable opinionated delicacies
Attenuations of what life is attacks and strangles my neck
Global troubles of war, bombs, hunger, anger
Illogical connotations of overlapping determinism
I burrow like a termite in a convex rising molehill
Terminated in contrasted stations as we convene
Gripping hands to grasp our existence in life
I wonder about the whole of it, I think of it somedays
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
Mountain deterioration
Molehill sized problem
In view of others eyes,
Then why is it that mine
A mountain do divine?
Insistent drowning thoughts
Craving dreaded loneliness
For alone there is no hate,
But too much time to contemplate.
A crowd of people
Yet to understand,
Their molehill can be climbed
My mountain is alive!
It grows and walks away
A steady pace I cannot match,
I chip away with building hate
Willing it to deteriorate.
If I can conquer this mountain
And start afresh anew,
Then this depression ruling high
Will be expelled with no forlorn goodbye.
But no.
My problems seem too large.
And that mountain in my mind,
I can never leave behind.
It stays,
It looms,
Depression booms.
My mountain will not deteriorate.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
Gimme the dregs
the sludge
at the bottom of the coffee ***
in a twelve-ounce paper cup
Give me snowmelt
Give me the bile in the belly of the earth
Give me good, clean american dirt
and half-remembered dreams
and I'll show you what it means
to live honestly.
Gimme the sun
up on high
on the other side of nightfall
to tighten the bags under my eyes
Give me dandelions
Give me a candle for warmth and light
Give me the mist in the sky
and a spoonful of rice
and I'll show you what it feels like
to move a molehill.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC
I was born in a story you wouldn't believe.
I was born in the back of a minivan
sitting on the rails of a one track mind.
I was born out of a need for gluttony.
My father couldn't handle my beauty
and committed himself to 50 years of tilting
shining self destruction. I was born atop a mountain
that was once a molehill. No one could see
the rising sun for all the jutting inconsistencies
of the heaving throne beneath me.
I was born in and out of a wave violently
caressing the coast of a chiming belltower,
tulip and rose blooms ripped from their stems.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
Bennus crossing- by me... Awake oh world..awake 2015.. This is not a dream, a public announcement!!
An endorsement of fiery destruction will reign upon earhtly cities. A crossing of no pity. For twas predicted long ago...
Thy lands will be cleansed as snow. Howl and moan/ for trees will be scorched a twist! Thy eye sockets wilt be ripped and headache wilt be a molehill for thou!!!
Banks wilst crumble, babies shalt mumble as in Noah's day!!!what's wrong? No loving songs, to the devil you'll make a parade!!!!
You clown of display, skies will grey and stars shalt be fiercesome and almighty as thy green greedied dollar!!!
Here's thy collar, oh don't forget thy new world chip, for all younger days and innocence you'll wish thou couldst return!!!! Return to thy own dust oh man!!!for its lives thou took, now thy life to be given!!! No feast of thanksgiving! Can't thou read the scribes writing?
Blind thou hath been for over 2000 years, stack thy gold corrupted by moss in thy underground cellar!!!fighter, yeller!
Cop brutality shalt get much worse! Violence will between thou sister and brother! Can thou not changeth thine own way? Mummified curse indeed! Pigfeed you've become to ones who blow the horns! Watch out/move.....don't get burned!!!!volcanic destruction will match quakes to rattle thy mortars, for climatic borders will be bound by new order charisma!!!!hope!!hope!!the crowd yells to their thorned crown king!!!2015 the year of the blood moon! The year of thine own final sting!
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
Have you ever had one of those moments?
You know, like;
when before you can begin to get a sentence in, you see the other person's eyes roll.
when words of wisdom sound arrogant and cynical.
when you know you're being far too critical.
when your obnoxiously focused on the most simple wrinkle.
when your little issues seem to flip to psychosis and drive you mental.
when your own thoughts threaten to send you to a hospital.
when tomorrow feels like just another obstacle.
Those moments when breathing feels impossible
When contemplating turns suicidal
And dreaming becomes unbearable
That special moment when it sets in that this doesn't feel like living,
This feels more like survival
No?
You've never had that feeling of being out of control,
Lost in a downward spiral?
Where you swear,
This mountain used to be a molehill...
®2024
Jun 13, 2024
Jun 13, 2024 at 7:40 PM UTC
In a room among newspapers from far-away climes
like a tame animal like a marvelous man you love yourself
and sit on the edge
of the bed with your palms on your knees
or absolved of birth and death you stroke your pumice-stone
cheek
until the sun crosses the other side
next to the photograph of the happy child who is piddling on
a blue shore
Then every thing returns regroups
as though in a boiling fog in which things are mended
among the obscure plantations of chance And alongside
a woman carefully hangs out the clothes of the drowned lover and
speaks to them
the one who still seeks you in the black bones of the
butterflies
And while you wander lost through the mists of a powerful
manhood
past the spades left on the fresh molehill
or gaze at the swaying of the two stakes ****** into the shore
or lie down on the ground and the wind covers your face with
thistles brought who knows whence
a great sadness brings back the lunar landscape of her tired
shoulders
and there are no more words but her whisper are things which
settle
everywhere filling the ripped silence of the train's screech
her whispers are the water gathered over the prints of her
soles after the last rain
but a simple turn of the key is enough for you to be able to hear
the slow flowing of time by your dampened socks
or the heavy breathing of the roots
and again you dream the blue shore at the end of the river
on which we ruminate our enchanted abandonment
Gellu Naum, Vasco da Gama and other pohems, Humanitas Publishing House, Bucharest, 2007
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
the world never fell out from under you, no
you constructed safety nets like trampolines because you were always paranoid about the end of the world and since i was your world you wondered about the end of me
but i don't think you thought very hard about the end of you
the one that got tangled in dreams bigger than yourself; the ones that validated you and made you feel you had something worth struggling for, a rope on your back to secure your insecurities as you scaled the molehills you made out of mountains
did you ever think about the girl who had nothing to prove
the girl who showed you everything and for some reason that made you the bigger person
it's just that-
i was peanut butter and you were two years old
i guess your mom never told you how to grow up and decide if you had phobias or allergies
because i wouldn't have minded the way the hives erupted across your face like volcanoes without a cause
i would've rubbed your back with chamomile lotion and tried to read your sores like braille--
but i was peanut butter
and you were two years old
and i guess your mom never told you how to grow up and decide if you had a peanut allergy or commitment issues
(perhaps you had both)
perhaps you were so scared of the reaction you would have to someone who would lace your veins with her own blood if you needed, someone who was so willing to hand over her perplexities and let you examine them like a rubik's cube- is that what i was
because i always made it perfectly clear that i loved you
because i don't like seeing you sore and angry like that
i hate the way i hear your bones sigh when you move
the sticks and stones were never really a problem for you
but i think the burdens of my words broke you a little
the words that always made it perfectly clear that i loved you and
i guess you would always ask why but i always thought that some questions don't need an answer
and the only thing i could think of was that if people really are dust like the Bible says, then i was a molehill and you were a mountain
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
The simplicity I'm searching for
Hides beneath my fingernails
Occupies the dark spaces I refuse to frequent
Consumes the sweet fumes I forget to swallow
I've been told I overthink things
It has never been about mountains or molehills
I always see land big enough for shelter
I do not need reasons
This is what worries me
I hesitate all the time
Then I think I know
Then I know I know
Then I see you in public and you're laughing
And I can't tell if you're laughing at me
So I smile
Not because I want to
But because I think you want me to
And suddenly I don't know anymore
But I wonder if everyone else knows
Or if you know
Then I'm back beneath the mountain
Or the molehill
And I don't give a **** about this land anymore
I just want to see you
walk to the highest peak and shout your name
And watch the echos vibrate off my chest
This is what worries me most
What I need
Is the courage to say exactly what I intend
Believe I already own this certainty
Live within the in between
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
Hungry, it'll seem
Like eating up a mountain.
Thirsty, it'll feel
Like drinking an entire sea.
And getting the sea,
Could barely guzzle a rivulet.
And obtaining the mountain,
Could hardly swallow a molehill.
For life is simply an empty chase
Without God the Maker of the universe.
Wherefore pant I for that immaculate fountain
To come and quench my thirst,
And I pine for such refreshing honey
To please fill mine whole heart.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 2:47 AM UTC
everybody telling me to chill
making a mountain outta molehill
but everything feels surreal
it’s like I’m underwater, need some gills
people say time will heal
all the pain that I feel
maybe they’ll care when I pop the pill.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
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Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 7:01 PM UTC
Molehill to earth
Thud, thud and thud
Hurtling
Molehill to grass
Hair flying
Heart to breath
Thud, thud and thud
Flowing
Heart to head
Feet hurtling
Hummock to leaf
Thud, thud and thud
Flying
Hummock to sky
Arms flailing
Foot to root
Thud and thud
Stepping
Falling
Thud
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 7:10 AM UTC
It matters not your intent nor will for a molehill is a mountain in the hiding.
To rise suddenly by a millimeter or two.
Surprises.
All is written some profess.
The pages rustle freely in the Autum breezes to rest and suggest with majesty.
But the story is amorphous.
Till final chapter and fullstop.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 12:37 AM UTC