Best Foothill Poems
The Hands of Time
The hands of time stand eerie still
Where hearts chamber a cagey chill,
And whispers warn of shadows deep
With eyes that strain as shower’s sweep,
The sands of time a formless fill.
Disenchanting dreams pave their will
Seconds follow a timely till,
While the dormant lie counting sheep,
The hands of time.
Where voices scratch a shackled shrill
The hours' harbor a haunting thrill,
And the minutes tear as they weep
Behind the veils the walls of sleep,
Moon in sight above the foothill
The hands of time.
#4
The Rondeau consists of 13 lines of 8 syllables plus 2 refrains
AABBA - AAB with refrain C - AABBA with Refrain C
July.25.2018
Rondeau Poetry
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Placed 1'st
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 !
The Empty Academy Schoolhouse
It stands on a vast green lot,
No trees to shelter it from heavy, gray clouds
on the rolling foothill horizon.
Its thin coat of white paint peels,
revealing bare, dry-rotted wood.
The rickety porch boards,
once sturdy under children’s energetic steps,
look about to collapse at the slightest wind gust.
What’s it like inside?
Puddles of water from the last rain?
Rat’s nest in the woodstove?
Any desks or yellowed books, pencils,
love notes left behind?
A soiled ribbon slid off some girl’s braid?
A chalkboard with spelling words
or arithmetic problems still on it?
What songs, prayers, or memorized poems
still echo off faded, white-washed walls?
When was the first day of school?
When was the last?
What became of all the children,
who once ran around laughing
all over this green meadow?
What happened to ball players,
clover-chain weavers,
kids who picked lupines and fiddlenecks
for their teacher?
Did they leave Academy,
or do they lie in the cemetery on a nearby hill?
Published in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2021 Issue
This old school house is in the tiny pioneer town of Academy, just outside of Fresno, California, near the Sierra Nevada foothills. Some of the descendants of the pioneer families still remain in the area.
The Mountain –
I climb between a foothill
And its craggy legs. Self will,
See me through
Where few have forged before,
Higher than the hawks explore
And higher than my clouded view.
I must not fail, there must be more!
I go
IN SEARCH OF THE MEANING OF LIFE
Beauty Most Rare –
Days past the conifers below,
Green fur upon the snow.
A lone bloom
Higher, fighting through the drift
And higher, I kiss this fragile gift.
The petals bruise and fall against the gloom.
Beauty most rare, your death is swift.
Ah no,
You Do Not Hold The Meaning Of Life
Wisdom –
Time blurs within this wintry void.
Hand here, foot there, my wits employed,
This is the way
Higher, my path within my eyes
And higher, I pause and realize
This is not wisdom hard at play,
My quest is far from wise.
Ah no,
You Do Not Hold The Meaning Of Life
Love –
My need yearns to drink her scent.
Such longing rues the quest’s ascent.
I must push on!
Higher, she waves beyond my reach
And higher, this love begins to teach
‘Though loved ones may be gone,
They live within the hearts of each.
I wonder,
Perhaps You Hold The Meaning Of Life
Holiness –
The climb has all but claimed my life.
I only see my home, my wife.
A cave ahead?
Higher, I see the open door
And higher, he sits upon the frozen floor.
I ask for truth. He lifts his head
And laughs, “We live, we die.” And nothing more?
Ah no!
You Do Not Hold The Meaning Of Life
Friendship –
Higher, I must steel my will
And higher, I fall and feel no chill.
The quest is lost!
The mountain peak and dreaming blends…
I waken in the hands of friends
Who followed me despite the cost.
On you my breath depends!
Ah, yes
You Hold The Meaning Of Life!
Acrid smoke in the scientist’s bell jar
Blankets of chenille-covered snow
Crystalline carbon diamond star
Drips forming stalactites grow
Effervescent waterfalls’ dreams
Frothy-topped cappuccinos
Gelid surfaces of lakes and streams
Halos of angels in holy repose
Icebergs splitting from their source
Jasmine-covered pergolas in Spring
Knuckles clenched in fear or remorse
Love’s purest form sobering
Mandala patterns on frosted window
Newly-born flamboyant flamingos
Opalescent lustre of pearls on show
Pineapple-licious snow cones
Quills of the porcupines’ defense
Ringlets of great-grandparents’ hair
Steamy hot springs vapor intense
Trailing wisps of London fog air
Undulating winter foothill maze
Veils of fine tatted lace purity
Wieliczka Salt Mine passageways
Xilinous spider webs artistry
Yahrzeit candle flame in memoriam
Zephyrus ballooning sails on a whim
On the foothill of Himalayas range,
The queen of hill stations in India
Holds a fairyland atmosphere,
With hugging spiral roads
Ascending to the peak,
Mussoorie gives
Top view of
Foggy
Land
when winter comes and skeletons of trees
stand starkly upon the snow
i will think of you
and your head on my lap before the fireplace
skating on the gaunt, deep pond
where we made love on brighter days
hot chocolate and fired brandies
and standing at windows while flurries fell
when it is spring again and trees bear promises
as islands of snow die slowly in their shadows
i will think of you
when all was alive again and you believed in us
within the world of nest-making and streams going home
making bouquets of foothill flowers
constantly profaning the word “forever”
and imagining that winter was forever gone
when summer is upon me with sweltering wrath
i will come to the forest where we walked and
i will think of you
where we were prone beneath the well dressed limbs
in a canopy above us, fitted into one another like lovers
by the quarry lake where you were covered in beads of water
and the sun loved you and glistened upon your body
where i looked at you as one would view sunsets or miracles
autumn will come with all its dark omens and i will walk
upon the crisp leaves made spectacular by death
and i will think of you
where the earth wore its gaudy colors while ours had faded
into the murky hues of uneasiness and fear
and soon the trees will awaken alone and naked to the world
and i will understand their plight in a box called home
where once laughter lived and life was wonderful
there was a time before seasons and sentiment
when small, gentle hands covered my eyes with giggles
and you gasped, “oh, i’m sorry! i thought you were someone else!”
i smiled then and replied, “i am.”
it was the spring of us that led into the caldron of summer passion
before time and treasons took their toll
before reality and reason tore the glitter from our eyes
and our autumn came that condemned us to our winter
A good poetry emanates from the heart of the poet, vibrates in its rhythm that resonates in the mind of the reader. The form of poetry has evolved over the years with literary experiments on poetic expressions where the muse weaves tapestry of words. The traditional forms of verse use some kind of rhythmic pattern called meter (meaning ‘measure’ in Greek), a scheme of stressed and unstressed syllables. Each set of such syllables comprises a foot, the building block of meter. The lines of most of English poetry are like garlands that string together the foot, the individual rhythmic unit, the flower. The arrangement of syllables (stressed, unstressed) in these units in lines of a poem may vary, deciding its meter, such as, Iamb (a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable), Pyrrhic (2 unstressed syllables), Spondee (2 stressed syllables), Trochee (a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable), Anapest (2 unstressed syllables followed by a stressed syllable), and Dactyl (a stressed syllable followed by 2 unstressed syllables). The length of the line is controlled by the number of feet, giving the metric pattern to the poem, such as, monometer (1 foot), dimeter (2 feet), trimeter (3 feet), tetrameter (4 feet), pentameter (5 feet), hexameter (6 feet) etc. In this basic pattern the rhythm is how the words flow with the meter. Rhythm can be created by repetition of words that flow in metric pattern or by breaking up the flow with longer or shorter lines. A poem is indeed like a river that flows with words in lines rippling in rhythmic pattern.
In the mountains cascades the brook in glee,
water of the foothill river is free,
the feet of banks dancing ripples embrace,
the rhythm of flow wraps the river in grace.
Ripples may come, ripples may go, it flows
to the ocean, placid ocean it goes.
July 19, 2018
(The poem is set in iambic pentameter with rhythmic repetition of words in the last two lines.)
Looking forward all winter for my vacation
A three-day excursion put on by We Are One Nation
We parked our RV’S near the foothill,
then hiked and climbed top of the cliff and met Will
When the sign appeared Reggae Pon the Mountain,
we were quickly escorted to the water fountain
Come and jam to the tunes of the Marleys
Hanga-langa and check out the Harleys
The Jamaican food—colorful, soulful—sublime
One look and I knew right away I would need more time
to enjoy Reggae 'Pon The Mountain
We bought masks, jewelry and tasted the cookies
Ingredients pure, strong, overwhelmed—we felt like rookies
C’mon stay mon, enjoy the music all day, sangalanga on Topanga
You know the Canyon known for the rock-stars?
Three days of festive delight, tonight be romantic, sleep in your cars!
Our host thanked us and said Jah be with you, Rastafari
We waved as he drove off in his Ferrari
We’ll be back tomorrow for the Caribbean callaloo
where we’ll stay all day and enjoy the hullaballoo
A music festival up on the mountain
I live atop a foothill to mountains of the Cascade Range
and people here keep to themselves whether on busses or on trains;
from my back porch are lights a big city can be seen;
and the blissful aroma of Tacoma remains endlessly lingering.
Strange men and women drive so many different cars, backed up on I-5;
quiet shameful waste of natural resources and an utter waste of lost time—
Displaced in such crowded chaotic madness;
eyes reveal a hopeful truth behind bloodshot sadness.
I can also see such a sight from my front yard,
where tens' of thousands' drive to work very, very hard;
a not so big surprise when homeless men floating that-their sign,
witness cars turn away cheeks denying wrongs with you and too I.
And hope remains prevalent above all other fear; all alone—
So long as we give all our love every day; too each, we call home...
1-05-17
Milton, Washington (United States of America)
A Sonnet contest about where I live, by Silent One...
Dear
You touched my heart with million desires
and broke it into million fragments.
Your words stimulated my consciousness, your eyes spoke to my nucleus,
and I lost my mind in the process.
You have stolen my heart, hijacked my mental state,
and driven me bizarre.
My love for you is like a foothill stream.
No matter how many twists and turns it may take, it flows pure from the top to the bottom.
You came like the night intruder.
Flourished in my heart like spray roses and bright up my life like sunrise.
I love you from the deepest part of my heart.
Whenever I am with you I feel the hotness and adoration that gives me power to carry on.
When I look deep into your mind and soul,
I saw beauty and mountains of happiness…………………………….
My heart is pounding as I say goodbye.
Yours
Dreaming of idyllic forms
Puzzle pieces mold as one
Imaginary lines unrooted
Petty pebbles sink in twilight
Then suddenly I’m awake
Laying here at daybreak lake.
Early enough to see the dew
Abreast my cold feet wading
I watch ripples promptly cease
As new ones dawn the trip
A cycle our lives can relate
Halcyonic touch of daybreak lake.
Morning glory’s violets bloom
Across the rivers foothill edging
Streams aroma guides my pining
To faded footprints of my youth
Where aspen branches quake
Sunny haze at daybreak lake.
Minds heavy winds thudding
Worldly pebbles wash ashore
Submerging pleasant dreams
That wake ideals from slumber
While my heart's eye aches
Reflecting late at daybreak lake.
I like pets, and we have had our share of a few.
Unfortunately, we never attached to the point of
seeing them as family members. Perhaps it's because
we were not together long enough to bond like family.
There was a shelty named Jack and a cat named Midnight.
There was even a bonny rabbit whose name I do not recall.
But still and all, they came and went away; and also died.
We were forced to give Jack away when the kids grew up
and lost interest. Midnight just disappeared. The bonny
died and we buried her so lovingly.
In a quiet community called Orangevale where
we resided for 4 years, if we had roses there,
I can neither recall nor tell. But we did have roses
in the village of Antelope which was our abode for
nearly 15 years. And I do know without a doubt that
we also had roses in The Foothill Farms community,
a place we called home for nearly 17 years.
Oh, there were other plants and flowers a-plenty, but none
so beautiful nor more plentiful than those roses. We had roses
with and without thorns, the most colorful and delightful.
They were all beautiful, and we named them ROSE.
082322PS
Bhanu Singher Padaboli
Eight (gahan kusum kunja majhe)
O'er the Eden grief, solitary floral, she. myriad, myrtle
a soft croon of oblivion, the harp of the wind, weaverbird humming thistle
Overcoming the fear, verses as they weave beyond subtle murmur
Soulmate, a windcatcher, come along, fly on, o fly on!
The sky blue innocence a morn and my morning dew
the heart song a love blossoming in the river song, unsung
The bright eyes and the rest with the fallen tranquil, endeared a dear gaze
Hold the step and come along the greenery, my first try, dwell in togetherness
the thistle sundried, bless the time, fragrance and abundance plethora
the pleasure of sound, the warmth, they weave unsung
the moonlit eve pouring elixir
the promise of a morning song, along in the long
the color stroke in diva, they sprung, one by one
in million, and more, unsung beyond the troubadour charm
an Esperanza and solitary she in company of trochaic along
Jasemine blossoming in hue a morn, dear born! Sing along
Lo and behold my reverie, my seasoned soy
the churned delight of the sunlit zeal
a sweetened cuddle as the moonlit innocence
warner is she, transitory as she sang and wills on unison
Come along the oblivious morn, a song a lull, a hymn croon
we will sing and the song wills on whence the sculptor time
the foothill and a tear and smile
the anonymity of a penname, so shall they bond, beyond!
........................................................................................................................
Bhanu Singher padaboli
Eight (gahan kusum kunja majhe)
Song: Gahan Kusum Kunja Majhe
Artist: Avik Deb
I stumbled on a hovel in the woods
Dug in a foothill roofed with mossy shakes.
Inside, its furthest wall was made of stones
Piled high to make a chimney and a hearth.
Two stovepipes served as draft to bring in air.
No window spent what little warmth there was.
Who built this cell and for what purpose built?
If navvies built some shelter from the cold,
Then why not near to any railroad tracks?
A two day hike from any farm or town,
It made too far a lovers’ rendezvous.
Was it to help someone who’s lost survive?
Unlikely as it was, it might have been,
But only those who know to look can see
So meadowed as it is in growth and slope.
Opposing thumbs can easily unlatch
Its door inviting all who enter in
And equal welcomes guest or ghost alike.