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Nico Julleza Oct 2017
The grass was clear in the moist of the ruins moat
Twas dawn and all this hike, not even a city I could sight
The plains were sheer as the white satin coat I've seen

Clash, a clustering view from mountains down to hills
Shaking knees as I rise to pick up my bed of sheets
Then the breeze swept as I shivered to its grasping chills

Distant peeks; unbridled stallions are troubled free
The sunray spots the verge and brightens the darkest end
At lost in the moment, a nature's sage of imagery blends

A brown wren swiftly glides upon to rest at my tent
In the midst of the day like rain in June and blooms of May
Swans, Geese and white petals dancing to a bluish bay

Solitary to be, but with the rivers overflowing symphonies
We'd sing hymns to delight in an afternoon galore
A steadfast rhythm clinging as I walk with God alone

Euphoric army of billows cascading, a purple-orange scene
As I idle in the view of fields depicting a justful liberty
To smile and remember someone cared with all is please

Singing crickets and fireflies we're all a friend of mine
At eve I rolled endlessly, frolicking at the midnight meadow
Casting joys and crowns as the moon beams a silver line

To the hinterlands, life's a breeze and everybody twas at ease
An escapade I was wanting to get lost from life's reality
Meeting pauper's, gazing wonders, then we'd all fall asleep
#The #Hinterlands #God #Nature #Man

Sometimes I just wanna get lost in this place...

An Imagery of a New day cycling from Dawn, Mid-Day, Afternoon, Evening and Lastly Midnight..

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Linkuya Nov 2017
Fifty seasons past, in times overgrown and abandoned,
Lived Hinterlands vast and wild, twice as unknown as fate,
Holding many mysteries both bewildering and unknown,
Lands wild, confusion and treachery all they would ever create.

A colony of spirits inhabiting the oak trees,
They would move in purpose and silence,
To and fro, the colony traveled as they pleased,
Killing under the moon, hands upraised in defiance.

The great wolf left loose,
He prowled through the land once again,
His mark found on every tree and every spruce,
Until a traveler sought the beast, and it was gracefully slain.

The sleeping foe was as tall as the night sky,
With every breath he would poison the air around him,
Thick stone-flesh covering his single ruby eye,
His foresight was still strong and true, tidings proved grim.

Hinterlands Folklore heard clearly and truthfully,
Untarnished by the seasons change, year after year,
Histories left both bizarre and beautifully,
Eloquently left in text, yet in history painfully austere.
Adam Apr 2020
To spring’s Rebirth we looked
For reprieve from Orange Men,
Black Mamba gone too soon,
And the grey skies of faded winter afternoons.

Instead of azaleas and cherry blossoms’ magical fraicheur,
And the societal balm of sport-
Greeted in the soft spring light by Pandemic’s frosted darkness
First in the East, did Calamity raise her call to war
But as Rome in Carthage’s destruction did Old Calamity head West
Yet again it was Italy to suffer and raise its alarm
The People were crushed by the vice of disease
But further did they fall through their own Vice
and ignorance of values dear and established Law’s precepts.
A return to communal Glory’s past, they tried-
Further did they wander into the Hinterlands of Humanity

Finally these diverse, united peoples
Began to trust
In the road to Lady Liberty
Through song that overpowered Isolation
Spring’s rebirth seemed possible
But Calamity’s thirst was not yet quenched
And to America’s shores did she travel -
With zeal and fervor for destruction

The gates were open to catastrophe
Indeed did we welcome fire and brimstone
Without the means of final Victory.

Much as we did talk, action came too slow.
Burning like the Bushlands
Fools continued drinking and gathering
***-like in belief
That what soothed in days of old  
Would throw Calamity over the Wall
But No.

Grace of seasons past existing only
In the Hinterlands of collective memory
Spring’s Rebirth would wait another year.
Like sport and summer’s breeze on outdoor cafés,
We hope she comes back soon,
With Lady Reason as a boon.
Creepypumpkins Feb 2021
We are at the hinterlands of our emotions
We are at the hinterlands of winter
Spring is upon us
We are at the hinterlands of this pandemic
Let’s be hopeful
We are at the hinterlands I won year to the next one winter to spring
As we eat dinner We are at the hinterlands or another day
Jonny Angel Mar 2014
We crossed over
into the hinterlands,
burned trails
to unnamed  
watering holes,
those dingy places,
where we
lifted our hands
backwards,
tilted our heads upwards
to the gods
& drank copiously.

There was no law,
only disorder, but
nobody ever got in our way,
so we continued with impunity
to play wildly.

In altered states,
we mated
with unknown devils
who ****** us dry,
left us crying as
broken down dogs,
barking at the moon
& swearing oaths,
promises of silence,
what happens
south of the border,
stayed south of the border.
And it did.
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
After a hard days fight,
we were taken prisoner
by the grays.

It was way out in the hinterlands,
on the edge of tomorrow,
in the Battle of Sorrows
when they took us in.
Light was failing,
it was nearing night
when they brought us
in for interrogation.

Of course,
despite their methods,
we told them nothing,
nothing that would reveal anything
about the secret weapon,
the star-killer machine
that would be
the end of life
as we know it.

Besides, it's silly
to give the enemy
such valuable information,
information like that could turn the tide,
could destroy the whole universe,
make losers out of all of us.
I hope our side keeps it hidden.
Adam Childs Jun 2016
Not knowing where I am going
I am lost in an forgotten hinterland

I used to have such direction
But now I have absolutely none.

Wondering in this place
I am lost in Outer space

Surrounded by cloud
Like cotton wool

As all my lists
Dissolve into the mist

I look north, east ,south and west
No land marks valleys or peaks

As I sniff a little heather
And become as lite as a feather

Somewhere in my stomach
I feel an empty passage

But I take a gentle breath as
Something says nothing is urgent

I am cushioned by the cosiness
of the spongy undergrowth

As I Feel myself grow I delve
Into the peaty marshes bellow

Lost in this sleepy land
I can not help but enjoy

The forgotten Hinterland
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2014
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

Have not chatted in awhile,
me rutted in NYC,
a city of constant tear down
and sometimes flashy urban human
renewal...

While you,
you getting on with life,
growing up, growing down,
buying clothes for a new school season,
or growing children,
or boxing up now grandchildren memories of memories...
falling in love, writing poetry all about it...

You,
in Nepal, Malaysia, India,
Seattle, Portland, and the Florida's panhandle,
the US Midwest sainted hinterlands,
the South, that makes one love water,
water that has travelled from the faraway,
island continent of professorial Australia,
Did I forget the Philippines?

worse sin committed,
is that in
your poetry
I have not toe dipped,
quite the long erstwhile,
after loving it with
obsession devotion...

so just a Saturday afternoon
note penned just to you
and you alone...

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

So by way of apology,
craft a poem for you exclusive,
more than each word, letter,
every syllable, tongue tasted
for conjuctivity,
breadth and thus discovered
notes of red soil, raspberry, lemon,
even a hint of sweet masquerading as a
salty kindness in our veins,
our unique vintage of connectivity

Your hand to my lips raised,
grasped twice, by mine both,
slow lifting with stature, affection and respect,
kiss it and whisper just enough for
we two to hear...

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

even this seems weakly insufficient,
but care taken nowadays,
a new economy of words,
write less, think more, and
give up the truly deserved words only
as a mark of my fondness and respect

these come on no schedule,
often months in the making,
so forgive-me-not my unsweetened silences,
accept them with easy knowing that

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

the summer man wintered in discontent,
his journey now disrupted by forces exogenous,
stealing his vision, jailing him in between
walls of indecision, knocking down
his own twin towers,
but carelessly not making provision
to tell you well and often enough

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)*

Sept. 13, 2014
Thank you SALLY for reminding me of this long ago poem 6/21/18
Creepypumpkins Feb 2021
What a girl is bullied
Call Fat
Or other demeaning names or slurs
She decides to starve herself of food
And a physical and emotional beauty
She’s at the hinterlands of her existence
Boonies of life
Outskirts of society
Matthew M Lydon Feb 2015
she stood outside the apartment
finger halfway up her nose
scratching with her free hand
a **** loosely encased
in patchy, ***** blue jeans
ratty sneakers with holes where
her toes and dignity poked through

usually a whiner, a brayer
a donkey among gently purring cats
calling down thunder and racket
like a motorcycle tearing circles through a lamp shop

today, of all days, she swayed

silently
in loose waltz time
to soft piano of a long-dead Frenchman
curling down from speakers
mounted in windows
across the street

her misshapen hips and flexing calf muscles
lifting her up in a rude en pointe
somehow made elegant
by a quiet ballad, a soothing moment
on a hot August morning
in Main Street
of the hinterlands.

2/12/2015
the marriage of people I know, and music I only think I know.
Rangzeb Hussain Jul 2010
VI

“Hearken, all ye there!”

Seis Seis Seis Seis Seis Seis

It began, as these things tend to do, with a quartz encrusted howl,
Lamenting under the crystalline shadows of Leda’s heartrending growl,
Her ravished moon bled and sank into the vocal cords of guilt coated cowards,
“Come back, come back! Oh, frivolous sanity thou art truly unjust, most unkind!”
Right here in this lonely place did my Darling dear spill devotion onto spiced dust,
She swayed on the rickety ridge surveying her sapphire kingdom’s splintered trust,
There it lay glittering, her city of cities, nothing now but a jeweled corpse.

V

“Know ye not of the oft-told tale of the drinking-well at World’s End?”

Cinco Cinco Cinco Cinco Cinco

My Lady who did fire the lyre of Orpheus, she weeps there in the misty chilled cold,
Wild it is, all about her the night wind nibbles at the skin clothing her fractured soul,
Cacophonic waves of regret silently scurry to labyrinths entombed with truths bold,
“Come back, come back! Oh, to my tempestuous ***** hasten with thy canticles!”
The symphonic fingers of fog pluck a requiem upon her autumn flavoured hair,
My Queen is attired for her banquet at tables far beyond Persephone’s desolate tears,
On the precipice her figure rises for the final faithful leap into Styx’s stratosphere.

IV

“Behold now the dread eyes of Hades, see how they hunger blood at the boil!”

Cuatro Cuatro Cuatro Cuatro

Carnivorous tasted memory plagues the betrayed Minotaur’s desired deliriums,
On these haunted shores I clutched her close and eagerly inhaled love’s elusive serum,
Legend has it a suicide was here on this very cliff-top, ‘twas a true Roman centurion,
“Come back, come back! Oh, let us under Demeter’s enchanted orchards lie!”
My obsidian-eyed Beauty gathers her eggs and over the fearful edge she unfurls them,
Closer to the dead of Euphrates she steps, I to madness hurtle as one condemned,
Bind savage Cerberus for the solitary reign of the wolf is fate for all hanged men.

III

“Prometheus thou hast drunk Pandora’s poisons, what sayest now the Titans?”

Tres Tres Tres

Golden fleeced days into the fleshy ground of Morpheus’s realm did seep away,
How well spent they were not even immortal Calypso shall decipher nor say,
Would that mine myopic ears had been shorn and tossed into Pompeii’s crisp clay,
“Come back, come back! Oh, gentle Maid no more, I beg thee stay awhile yet!”
What was it? Was it me? No, no, it could not be me for I was Achilles buried asleep,
How little we then knew, we two did partake of the stinging, you the wasp I the bee,
Mayhap ‘twas this unlocked the plumed towers to thy curled universe tunneled deep?

II

“Therefore did the Serpent spake and pronounce a judgment most nefarious!”

Dos Dos

She thinks back, my Lady fairer than Medea, she remembers a time happier,
Really there was, hear yet my credo, once upon-a-time there was no doubting terror,
But then a thing did into our guarded haven breach and wreathe about my treasure,
“Come back, come back! Oh, let me slake my thirst with thy honeyed spirit!”
My flesh did crawl, my fangs grew sharp, my spittle ran down and my fur stood taut,
The jawbone stiffened and all the while I burnt like an infernal phoenix caught,
Oh, my sweetly crazed fruit, did I for real the horror upon you wrought?

I

“Would that thou didst offer me thy riches upon the hour of the violet twilight...”

Uno

Wolfsbane moon, high above it rose in that final cracking of sacramental bones,
My Lady much wrong did you I, forever for this will the beast in me atone,
Now, at this baleful hour has the wolf left you on the edge of an embryonic cyclone,
“And so to the Elysian Fields where insanity fertilizes the soul do I embark...”
You cross the Rubicon and glide into the obliterating arms of Plutonic eternity,
The wolf, me, is left clawing your hooded red robe with absolutely no certainty,
I see you sailing upon Neptune’s trident, forever adrift on oceans of eternal cruelty.

N

“Seekest thou sanctuary in the hinterlands where the man with one eye is King?”

Cero...

pretium libertas est nex**



©Rangzeb Hussain
Antony Glaser Jun 2018
i am winter
you are the stars
we trek across the hinterlands
wherever we go
Fah Nov 2014
Sojourn at the hinterlands of a fog casket
awoken to be suffocated
put to sleep        to dream
within a dream                         the nightmare of a mother's fear

depression is so easy to slink in
so wary of all those palpable sins
like being yourself -

awoken to be suffocated
put to sleep      to dream
with a dream                           the nightmare of a mother's fear
where pink haired ladies
talk about my dissonance

within a dream about the nightmare of my mothers
self punishment -

for birthing me
questioning                if it was the right decision

if I          was born to suffer
this fate

so i wake                  in the land of dead people
who's limbs fall apart
as they're names are called out by the concierge

to my voice as whisper
to my courage bubbling underneath
a mother fearful of coming close
forgiveness is a blessing
and the tears flow

                       out of the eyes of a child onto the cheeks of a woman
who's life was molested by other peoples sanctions
a woman who stood tall for the voice of others    children and elders
who encouraged chance meetings to be themselves via magazine clippings
and a mother afraid to come close
and a child still living the actions of a ghost                 looming at her with wide eyed slanders of " you ****** up , you *******
you **** up at everything"

it's difficult to look               it's like watching someone be strung up
naked
tied to posts
and the spaces between their fingers sliced
their yoni sliced
their ******* sliced
their heart beating wide eyed screaming
silenced.

My mother
who birthed me
whom i respect
for all of her showings
no matter how ****** up

strung up
and the vision is blinding.
and we're both crying
but i don't tell her
because it's lunch time
and she's ****** up again.
- a meditation dream -
Third Eye Candy Mar 2013
the farmgirl with the green flecks in her anime eyes
is snoozing in her van. it's afternoon and she's lost her ruby slippers. she knows not where.
she charms the water fleas with her clean teeth.
she gropes through the ampules of her ample *****. where her heart is like a fox and hound.
in a glass forest. the otherwise, warm porridge is the cruel gruel of her next poem.
she gnaws on the nape of her next unborn. the naked rube of her snipe hunt
on a night with no moon.
she doesn't mind either.
her kites fly, un-flummoxed in the effulgent. unchained in the Quixote of our windmills. distilled
by charcoal fences. a net of screens, nimbly deployed across the hinterlands
of our possibilities.

now " who could that be ? "

agnes is calling and i know she just wants her computer fixed.
Dave Robertson Jun 2021
Blackbirds backwards
and your solid foil to my boiling yawn
is remembered

I’ll always love you my dude

even though it’s mostly memory now
we travelled odd eighties early nineties
hinterlands
full of clear stupidities and hidden
immutable truths

but I’ll always hold
ridiculous dry heated cricket pitches,
run dark *** and loose joints
as what drove us

“What should we do today?”
“I dunno”
rf jordan Apr 2016
when i cordoned you off
with Gorilla Tape and lilac vine
once i was done attaching encrypted files
of pearls upon that sultry salt of your inner-thighs
once i’d borrowed bonds
off my favorite banker’s portfolio
so i could waste myself in their earned interest
ratios
of blood bourne by centuries of
hapless gathering oppression
so i could use them in mosaics of swollen sand
that i could lay
like sea-glass shards under your
ebbing feet as useless parchments
i swallowed you in all your swollen spasms of fragile oblivion
until that bottom of this tongue lept amidst surfacing juices
obliterating and obligating all that ever decayed amidst obelisks
your whispers
(hatched from your
breathy endorphins)
shook me into
mine own
desperate shudders
astride our gathering humidity
and i gathered in
your needle-nosed
plier
eyes
-rust encrusted grey
incisors-
wrought from melted andirons
mixed with slug
trodden
soils
of hinterlands i was
never
to penetrate
as if i ever slammed
you
with yore spinning flails
into night’s emerging chasm
of charcoal sprinkled
with inner-orange peels
and their attempts toward
all that is illuminating, wistful, brief, and
precious—

i am your son, i am birthed from your sal i vations. i am twisting, still, amidst these rudiments of brine...
Helios Rietberg Aug 2012
Spurious words and spinning wheels
grasping the unmade road
crossing streams of deserted hinterlands
sparing no weakness

Plenty in the fork of the day
shining down like twilight
whittling down the breeze of night
and smashing up the stars

Meandering past the lazy groves
grain in corsets
musk in roses
pushing the littlest hearts
and raising their eyes to the sky
a glimpse and a glimmer
sparkle of the waters
and we were unshackled
lost

In more ways than one
you whispered in the tiniest hours
and I heard the edges of your echoes
resounding slowly and gradually
rebounding for more
filling the universe.
© Helios Rietberg, August 2012
Onoma Jan 2020
radial intemperance--

a sun ago

late to its day.

seperating the whites

of hinterlands.
Jay G May 2015
There it went, right with summer
into the hinterlands, and the snow kissed peaks
I chased it like cigarette smoke after my last one
I longed for it as the a glass of water in the deserts;

I've noticed how quickly it goes from 6 to 12
when I want just a little bit more time
How love goes to complacency in a
single blink of an eye;

It's the days that drag on that get to me
When the only warmth I'm feeling is
the street lamps as I'm roaming
Insomnia is calling, and she's got my name;

My souls reflecting in the mirror what's
been gone for so **** long
My child like ecstasies
My deepest desires of love are
all gone

If you could find it for me, I happen
to have a silver dollar
Perhaps if that's your price
you could go on the hunt;

Where do you go, once you've lost the scent
That carries you on home?
Where do you go, when the arms of yesterday
are no longer embracing?

When strangers are stone
When your mind is blank
to avoid all the pain
Where do you go?
I've a got a silver dollar, if that's your price
per chance could you give me some advice?
Third Eye Candy Oct 2012
humid temperance in your tussled hair
you are fair to begin with
a more wholesome lust-
my ***** could pray too.
you give this
gravitas -
while withholding a miracle of aftermaths.
you're spot on.
manifest this for me...
bring out the outcasts of your hinterlands and small tokens.
bring out your fists so that i  may comfort them
with too warm kisses.
let me languish in your paradox
swollen with joy
totally into it,

let me love you like like like like daybreak mending.

i'll size you up
on a pedestal
and catch
you

like a lover.

try me.
JC Lucas Jun 2016
Conifer-covered hillside
in the hinterlands
of this sleepy town
on a warm day
in this mid-June

The unspoilt soil
neither grieves
nor revels
and there's no revelation in that-
just what you see.

It's just what you see.

The quivering quakeys
can't hack it even when they cackle-
an attempt to unravel the shackles of
their incomplete alchemy-
cause it's never enough

one laugh is never enough.

The high's always flanked
by a sunrise so rank
as to wrinkle the brows
of the loudest and proudest-
the laughers and criers, or livers and die-rs

Just give me the bliss of the birds
and a big lidless urn to retire my fire
when the work week expires
when I finally can see even truth holds some lies
and when the sun sets too low to appraise the horizon,
I'll fly.

I'll just fly.
Helios Rietberg Apr 2012
I watch, at the
prairie of time
the unfurling of nature
the dissertation
of saints

and in the hinterlands
a bare cry of
entrance
barred into the heavens
whispers of the world

residues
of fate and light
and devils
grieving for their
sacrifices

and slipping
into the worlds of men
the partakes in
grey barriers
and lossy colours

periphery
the ancient coliseum
the warface of dread
and acquittals of
memories

moments in time
spinning on the axle
grappling onto thoughts
and endless flows.
© Helios Rietberg, April 2012
Megan Sherman Nov 2016
In hidden hinterlands of space
Betwixt the whirring spheres
Are marvels time cannot erase
With the bludgeon of her years

In stars’ cascade one sees clear
Nature’s hand, so accurate
The creations of her mind
Like pearls immense, immaculate

The majesty of multitudes
Is embodied in the expanse
Its bodies waltz and pirouette
In celestial romance

Walking cross the Milky Way
We could see on and on forever
Into an infinity of untrod realms
Untouched by man’s endeavor

For want of it the cosmic mystery
We may never fully grasp
But such ignorance is bliss to me
It’s enough to be in nature’s clasp
Megan Sherman Feb 2017
A veil of light and ashen grey
invites me to peer in to stranger day
fluttering and beckoning
behind it what is happening?
a smorgasboard of molten colour
winks at me, summons me near
I become swept up, in hurricane
that rolls and waves across the plane
of one reality in to another

'Tis here I feel my spirit brew
imbued with bright, celestial hue
deep in hinterlands of enchanting joy
where I ravish these pleasures coy
too overwhelmed to fight, resist
the very light with which I'm kissed
from famished eyes I am engorged
my tender spirit enlarged
on trajectory of bliss

On horizon, magic gestates
Leaves my spirit insatiate
Adorned by sparks phantasms brood
Lifting like hot air balloon my mood
Between chasm of magic and reality
Goes visions with conviviality
Enchanting the mind with true force
Summoned from natures magic purse
Which sprinkles havoc on normality

Forms of Beauty riddle my eye
With their heavenly symmetry
Godesseses of divinest shine
Beam soul-deep, from theirs to mine
Behind the veil of usual routine
Lies awesome truth with golden sheen
Nourishing the spirits belly
To magical shores the spirit ferried
Enamoured of most lucid of dreams
Yenson Jul 2019
the sacred Isle ruled the waves
then plundered and looted from Benin to China
from Egypt to Greece they took and even Rayleigh craved

Men, women, artifacts, gold silver, diamonds
all come back to our motherland to stay
nothing wrong with that, its all our birthright

A union was agreed between nations around
in opaques agreement lets pool everything and share
we move as one and live in peace and prosperity together

years down the line with all working well
the Isle said we want out we are not getting enough
we can go our own way and get a lot more without sharing

let us not be so selfish says some thinkers
we want out says the people cause we don't like sharing
lets go our way and take and sell to the whole wide world

they say I am greedy because some old man wore a coral crown
and owned the marshes he had lived from 1845 with his brood
no one went to sea to rob another or took taxes from people

the coral crown family all worked day and night
doctors, lawyers, surveyors, civil servants even nurses serving others
never took or asked from State to survive or wore any coral crown

came the wordsmiths and experts in Acquisition international
who wrote the book on Greed and taking from every known place
either by war, treats, bribery or just plain **** chicanery

yes, yes, this renowned Magpies hollered, you are greedy
it will cost you arms and legs, it will cost you all you hold dear
we say you are greedy and that's all, we hear no protest, no mercy

in simple minds logic and reasoning is not to be found
my coral crown old man did not fight to take land or wealth
did not sit in chambers gilded demanding taxes from no one

they moved from the hinterlands in droves led by him
to the coastal areas ****** land, where the marshes were wild
they cultivated and settled after years of exodus, perils and trials

he toiled hard and managed, created communities living in peace
ruled with wisdom and grace and looked after his people
killed no one for gain nor took land or property from any one

Ignore the difference between old man Coral and your own crowns
ignore the truths that shows there's no comparisons whatsoever
listen to the Experts on Greed. they have declared I am greedy
historically and now this Experts must be right, they invented Greed and Rights.........
ConnectHook Jan 2017
Masked back-packing militants descend on DC.
The instigators' antics indicate true agitator's instincts. When the rest buy it, the best... riot ? Putin set the precedent by rootin' for the President. As for the protestors -- are they seeking to serve justice or just the Secret Service? Joined by thousands of patriot motorcyclists, the black-masked boast of hikers may be lost on a host of bikers. Hmmmm... the silent verve of our veteran friends proves that the violent serve wicked ends. The verge of silence may mean a surge of violence.
While snowflakes melt down, the state will clamp down as militants storm town. Eastern sages know: a mean Taoist turned teen Maoist may raise the base rating for race-baiting just to get a rise. Erasing a different face is not the same as facing a different race (and many of these mad Taoists seem a tad Maoist to me...) Opening the trunk, one forgets that elephants remember: when the mob rules, they rob mules. Democratic icons are stubborn things. Until the bandits are punished let's banish the pundits to the hinterlands of fake news.
        It's inauguration time, Dumbo.
Clenched-fist troublemakers will use any mass gathering as an excuse to undermine civil society. Social media and the irresistible lure of virality have only strengthened their incentive to "FSU" (f—- s—- up). Here's another thing you can take to the bank: "Mainstream" protesters on the streets of D.C. will look the other way at these lawless vandals who leech onto any available cause. Their common goal is not "social justice." It's destabilization and disorder.

from: www.frontpagemag.com
Phosphorimental Sep 2014
A cove, one’s own
For hearts, a home
where sky and sea and
cliff sides crawling with posies
meet in places
built from traces
of reassembled memories.
all is quiet, all is tender,
purling waters to remember
sips to come, from cups, were poured
by ocean waves en echelon
by providence and then beyond
by each embrace of pristine shore.
reminding us,
o’ forgotten trust
in things from hinterlands
curves of thought imbued with love
raked into hidden sands
washed away, washed away
by the Beloveds hands.
Carlo C Gomez Sep 2020
In the lull
Of our constricted voice

In the hushing
Of our sullen realm

In the finite
Of our broken hinterlands

A watermark
No, rather

A barrow
A grave

Without inscription
Only handprints

In memoriam
Of the receding surf

Never heard
Never reached
Jonny Angel Apr 2014
I walked the borders,
saw the dunes towering
& heard sidewinder noises.
Each grain of sand
tumbles
out here
in the hinterlands
& those entombed
within the gates
of the concrete jungles
with cars honking,
know not the meaning
of pure silence,
nor the
call of the wild,
the sound of falling stars,
slithery creatures.
Jonny Angel Jul 2014
Off the dusty
reckless trail,
my two angry-feet
stared back at me
from across my kingdom-
a claw-footed
tin-lined
copper washtub
manufactured in St. Louis
for wayward Western royalty,
just me and my feet.

From under the bubbles,
I swore there would be no trouble.
Between a thick-veneer of desert ****,
I told my toes not to be alarmed,
to hang tight,
'cause this was going
to be our night for peace.

The last thing I saw
as we drifted into serenity
was my twin 44's
hanging quietly
in my well worn holsters.

Yessum, there's were rare times
out here, out here
in the desperado-hinterlands,
where quick hands
could bury a man
and his two feet.

I felt my hands tremble
at the thought of tomorrow.
But for tonight,
this quiet peaceful evening,
me & my feet
were surely safe
from any
immediate harm.

Amen (for these peaceful easy feelings).
Thank you Eagles!  :D
Jonathan Surname Aug 2018
To the limits!
And the heaves are harmed, in our lungs
and arms. Tendons flexed on their utmost,
and breath at play in the drowned coast.

To the shores!
And the leaves are left as specks of colour,
from the moors.
and vacations left the hinterlands
of the decayed, breathless holler.

For the greater good we stood as imagined heroes,
Yet for happenstance to lend a chance in our woes,
required a great many motifs
to clamour and climb
In glamourous time
to the raised butte
of a finishing sublime.

Modulate the past and harmonize the future.
Together tapestry'd, akin to patchwork suture.

We weren't raised this way.
To remain forever at play, workhorses neigh.
And sawing brilliance and sawdust eyes,
rapier wit with no equal.
But together a two-parter,
to the shores to see the sea quell.

Wildfire lick like lit flame.
Burn it all down and give me the blame.
It's a carried burden worth the worry.

In mountains some exist as prideful barons.
Barring the loss of their barren,
their smiles turn smirks of heathen carrions.
Which is fine, and the motif licks again.
And the motive is sublime; it's only sin.

Cherish the children and their rue of thresher-born,
Thomas Ligotti and his party of philosophy,
but I'm too caught in histrionics to allow the matter
to matter.
Beyond the kicking feet of the mirthful pitter-patter,
pitted against the coming solstice of time saving;
forward and back and ouroboros we may.
Hold on tight to this singular day.
Ignorant of the causes of our own decay.
Lost during summers covered in spittle and seaspray.
Only to mount a return, a loss,
to the area most unaccepting of the cost.

To the mountaintops!
**** what you see, and reap what you sow.
Push the mountains down into the crow,
and call out for the all the denizens below,
"Here's another landslide." As you call; Heave, and **.
Pile them neat and plant a seed,
of a tree that hasn't belonged or had a chirped song
in a placidity.
Awareness for a dying region

https://i.imgur.com/qUkjevo.jpg
alternately titles: I got noose for you,
Yours truly doth garrotte tee
another itsy bitsy,
betsy wetsy easy breezy read.

oft times ('specially
these latter unsainted days and nights)
in white satin death
doth haunt me atheistic zeitgeist
which thoughts of my demise
crowds out purposeful thinking
in the twitching mind kampf
paradigm of this atheist
hence, he betook himself
to this MacBook Pro,
while swiss side dull ideations

for professional intercession, could not wait
asper affecting cathartic,
purgative, harmonic tête-à-tête
and providing a meaningful surrogate
to expunge morbid mental state
accessed Open Office
and let fingers
(of left hand) do talking heads
to an imaginary therapist
across this qwerty keyboard

allowing, enabling, and
at the quickest typing rate
striving to captcha dismal, gloomy,
and ill lust tree us
deplorable mood aye equate
with pitching into
a bottomless abyss where pate
fed ceaseless diet of NON GMO –
a last repast
the grim reaper did orchestrate

gluten free, an extra heavy dose
of monosodium glutamate,
which ingredient doth
BuzzFeed thine appetite
for total mortal exterminate
'thou no need n re:coe fermi to rush,
where angels fear
to tread, cuz but better Nate
than lever, the apothegm,
credo, ethos...Kate
(the caterer maintains

an open exit from life,
and cares only
that each soul doth feel elan,
joie de vivre, and psalm times
a leaping lemur chants, ecstatically finally
gustatory humming don't jubilate
for your final homecoming, or else
the mailer daemon lived
a devilish dervish life will instigate
de coup age d'etat, but such extreme

measure for measure heed doth hate
yet exceptions always made for a date
particularly when henchmen to die for
golden age opportunity
to ****** a generic guy a create
an underground soiree will cease,
when ashes master
of hell raising
unpleasant circumstances twill use as bait
let underground missionary be advocate.
Megan Sherman Nov 2016
He walked in bright beatific phantasies
That captured and enveloped his reality
Those fierce and fiery, fruitful visions
Came to splendorous fruition
When one morn the muse he summoned
To pour music from the rift of heaven
Straight down in to his thirsty mind
He is risen, no more blind
Roaming, roving like a rainbow
The wilderness is the place to go
Like a wanton, wanderlust bard
He traverses valleys and fathoms stars
Speaking to the universe
He communicates its joys in verse
Sees in symbols he cannot speak
Much madness from his ***** beak
Words and vision charged as lightning
His potency is such it's frightening
He is again another child
To the hinterlands of the soul exiled
The rage, the grace, and the ferocity in between,
This relationship promised, to be nothing but pristine,
Calling out to me desperately, yearning to meet,
Now this is a bond, to which I could always retreat.

There it goes navigating, through the undergrowth,
Creating dense and lush bonds, tied by an eternal oath,
A stream giving life, to everything in its path,
This is a land that lives, beyond the clusters’ aftermath.

The stream takes us, to the hinterlands of civilization,
Technology absent, in the face of more than one distraction,
The blood red soil, furnishing the steady stilt houses,
This is where humanity comes to life, in many disguises.

Ambition stronger, than a finely brewed espresso,
A life seeped in tradition, transcends the status-quo,
Manifesting in the coffee, that shoulders the community,
The elements convene here daily, with sincere loyalty.
This piece is a dedication to wonders of nature and communities, often indigenous to those lands, that are so well integrated within the comforting confines of mother nature. Although the inspiration for this comes from many sources, it particularly refers to many elements of Laos – a country in Southeast Asia.
ConnectHook Jul 2017
hinting at hitting on
intersectional hinterlands
intersexual undercourse
underpar for underwear
off-course, of course
interCIS sissiness interests
rests a cisgender-ender
genders endanger engendering
male delivery of femaleman
chain letters in chain-mail maelstrom
higher matriarchy of the mail-room
hire patriarchal malarkey
good knight
and good luck.
I am very sorry that there are are only 2 genders but that's how God designed us.  Some people are celebrating confusion...but gender is gender.
winter has come early
solitude blankets
the frontier and hinterlands
of my soul
all the birds have flown south
taking warm breezes
with them
not to be outdone
solace of human
companionship has also fled
like long, lanky shadows
leaping across a high mountain
only the dark red eyes
of the cave
lit up by
an innermost
flame
stares
transfixed
motionless
expanding into
the empty night
It
may become dryer and brighter
may get clearer and lighter
but it's still Winter
ya can't fool me.

In the hinterlands where the old man stands eyeing the sky
as he does every day
as if waiting to hear someone say,
'change is on the way'
In reality he's waiting to die and wondering why the sky still looks so blue,when everything is going to turn black,
and his life turns its back,
he is ready,unsteady but it's Winter and he can't complain,
and his companion on the journey explains that it's always this way at the end of one's day when the world turns slate grey before turning black.

In the shifting of hues where the confusion of colours on his palette  run clear,the artist who drew life,draws his last breath,in splashes of light that flash vividly,avidly looking at the mystery unfolding,
he holds onto a fine brush that rushes to paint the morning,even as his hands fade away into the blackness,still wondering
why the sky looks so blue.

— The End —