Yellow leaves flash the window,
a fringe on the green,
too early for the tourists,
the peaks still serene,
been aching to escape from
telephones and cubicles,
only noise is my own thoughts
so meandering and dull.
Just the wind as it’s blowing
my hair all around,
the wild turkeys scatter
at the engine sound,
people say that I wander,
they all say I’m wasting gas,
sitting there watching football
to make the afternoons pass.
But the air and the silence
brings peace to my mind,
or maybe I just glimpse it
stolen piece of time.
I know the trees don’t feel so,
know that they don’t feel a thing,
just illusions on the thoughts
of a tired and caged thing.
Got no task that needs doing,
no weight on the nerves,
no social obligations,
just time well-deserved,
some say that it is aimless,
so I guess they know the truth,
but so then is their worry,
and I do not need them too.
All the echoes and the empty,
the bucolic scene,
just speaks to the point of it,
it just lets me be.
No reason I justify,
nothing I must account for,
existence for its own sake,
if just a few hours more…
There is no autumn here as you know it
no leaves that blush and fall and die.
Mango does not drop because September tells it to,
the island does not shiver, the sun does not go shy.
But Rasta knows autumn all the same,
not by the calendar, but by the ground.
When the rains have spoken and the earth is soft,
when the yam swells heavy, deep and brown.
Autumn is not orange, it is gold and green,
it is Ital from the garden, reaping what was sown.
It is callaloo and pumpkin from Zion's hand,
breadfruit roasting over fire, Jah's love made known.
It is the time of reasoning, of balancing the soul,
when Babylon says hurry, but I and I sit slow.
When the harvest comes, you count not what you lost,
but what you kept in spirit, what you let go.
No sweaters, no bonfires just incense in the dusk,
drums low like thunder, children husking corn.
Autumn in Jamaica is not an ending, seen
It is a keeping. A gathering. A returning home.
Floating across the ridges, gentle leaf
Soaring to new heights, despite the grief
Still, soft joy providing soul’s relief
Music in all its grace, autumn’s relief
Song as bright as sunshine in each leaf
This is the moment, pouring out its grief
Across the ridges, soundless edge of grief
Quiet prayers, in His presence is relief
Trees and hills, bound by each vibrant leaf
Every leaf, despite its grief, finds relief in Fall
You see them rise while still in the suburbs,
the rings of hills, the wilderness buffer;
smaller, more round than what waits further on,
some sport cabins atop with views quite long.
Down on the road some houses still pop up
for folks who hate the concrete, noise, and trucks,
and at crossroads, small stores with country themes,
selling jerky, t-shirts with wild scenes.
Then small motels folks claim on the weekend,
cars with kayaks, across the ponds to wend.
Just down from that, a smallish petting zoo,
with local critters strutting in plain view,
the kind you wish you could see in the woods,
but they all hide, and that’s for their own good.
Then a small lake, stubbed with second homes,
the kind that you hope someday you might own,
weathered docks and fishing boats on the lake,
could the trout here be big enough to take?
But now the peaks are stretching for the clouds,
buildings thin out, the road the forest crowds,
the foothills gone, these mountains your escape,
a wild land, the kind owned by the state.
dawn slips through the silent hills
wind carries the old earth’s breath
sparrows rise like whispered prayers
light gathers wandering hearts
as the saying goes "the hills come alive with music"
When i'm all alone , i wish someone could wrap me up and take me home, to somerset's green hills,the roads i used to know, even when things were hard, its where i long to go. The home was dark, so deep so raw, but i'd give the world to stand once more upon that shore. To breathe the same air, to feel the same ground, even the bad parts there feel safer than this town now. People say you shouldn't miss a place that caused me pain, but home's not all sunshine , it's where your roots remain. I'd trade these miles of distance , and this lonely space, just to be closer to that familiar place. No matter how far iv'e roamed , or how far ive come a part of me will always be back at home, or there within the hills. I'd grit my teeth through it all again, the good , the bad , the unknown , just to be where i belong, just to be closer to home. Even the broken home is the place i hold dear. No matter the miles, or the scars i have known, i'd give everything just to be close to home.
hocking hills state park
walking trails and waterfalls
a weekend visit
Your City
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seven Emerald Hills
Seven emerald hills rise steeply
From restless waters born of moving ice
Siblings of a greater peak
Lifting up their faces into rains of shrouded mists
Or bathed in welcomed sunshine
The First where stately mansion homes
Climbed to heights now holding healing hostels
Looking toward a Beacon,
Watching Rainier’s changing face,
Holding hands, across a valley cleft,
With the West where Alki shores
Welcomed the first footsteps of settlers
Looking across blue waters where ferries play at
Mistaken Magnolia blossoming with madrone
Not bowing to Queen Anne, counterbalanced,
Winking at Capitol, with shady streets
On a broad way above the lake
Looking north to find a learned Crown
Mourning Denny’s passing
Where offices now scrape the sky
Remembering a Yesler skid row, algorithms,
A pioneer square, a needle touching space
Slumbering in the shadows of a Sunset
Where seaplanes play with seagulls
In summer Seafairs and rain festivals January to December
X=Xylophones of wood make lovely music.
A=Around every hill and every
V=Valley filled with pretty wildflowers.
I=I love the sweet sounds,
E=Each ear is enjoying.
R=Rhythm that sooths the very soul.
Everything is a play of the elements
No ratio noticed in this stupid buzz
Only passion, that fails to make sense
Except troubles predated for us
Contradictory rules, badly managed
Each entity maintains their own
Power stands for the power, and savage
Stands for savage with pride overgrown
When these noises are getting too loud
I play music and watch travel films
They lighten my room without sound
Taking me over seas and the hills..
In the Pabbi Hills,
A couple of decades ago,
A small village called Mayyrr glowed
In the tender night of spring.
From every home, tiny flames flickered,
Like a swarm of fireflies—
Some crowning the upper slopes,
Some resting in the valley below.
The night was alive with gentle chatter,
Elders sharing tales and quiet laughter,
Warmth flowing beside their brass lanterns,
Stories unfolding, softly, like smoke in the air.
Lanterns poured love through their golden flame,
Wicks drawing oil from the reservoir,
As time, silently, drew life from the old folk—
Yet left their warmth, wisdom, and light
Lingering across the hills,
A memory that glows forever.
With voices raised in songs of ancient lore,
upon those hills our daffodils will sway.
With noble hearts their spirits will restore
as Wales with pride recalls St David’s Day.
The dragon’s tale is told in fields of green.
It speaks of leeks in Wales and toasts their name.
Its bravery and valour are both seen –
in town and country they will boast their fame.
Daffodils with noble hearts will sway.
Ah yes, they say, it is St David’s Day.
(Writing one for every 1 March, which is St David's Day; this, as my others are, was put on display for the month of March in Carmarthen Library in Wales, UK)
The wind rustles through the roadside bushes
The spicy scent of the field tickles my nostrils
As far as the eye can see, there is greenery,
low hills, narrow roads,
with cars crawl along, going about their business.
I don't understand where the wind comes from
on such a calm day as today.
I look back at your house
It's exactly the same as in the photograph
Taken years ago, only the ivy
Has perhaps grown too much
on the panel next to the window facing the road.
I feel as if I'm inside that old photograph
Where AI imitates the moving
And the foreground suddenly recedes into the distance
The field and hills disappear beyond the horizon.
Cawing crows fly by
The day draws to a close, the light changes
And slowly fades, like in a theatre
But the curtain hangs motionless
No public enters inside
Today is a bank holiday.
clouds press on the hills
the sunset clings to the ridge
heartbeats one by one
written_ 12022025_Don Mueang
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