Poetry by Claude Hill

Dream Sketcher


The Observer
The fallen branch is heavied with nature’s rain
Lying backwards like a lazy squirrel.
Blending into the fabric of beauty
Arousing our senses and intoxicating our deepest emotions.
Dripping life transmitted from trees
Washing my hair with nature’s hands.

The Dream Sketcher
An ancient breeze from Eden gives inspiration.
Mortal hopes seeking to fill eternal deprivation.
Thread whether tightly knitted eventually needs a perceptual
Seamstress to keep time from visiting.
The Dream sketcher filled with the lion’s fierce breath,
Journeys to realities unimagined like a living death.
The sketcher all along has figured out the bluff.

The Creator
The innate conflict captured in a moment of courage.
Daisies impact only once.
Creating fluid memories that feeds perception’s health.
The infinite facets of our achievements is never enough.
It’s experiencing detail through perceptual freedoms learned in spirit.
I think this brownish gray paint will finish the design
of a Delicious branch resting on nature’s spine.
I sketched with dreams and painted with imaginations brush.
Opening myself to life’s creative rush.


Youth Eventually Flips Towards Its Golden Page


The ‘crowning’ in itself is a temporary reign,
Of the human face’s fleeting name.
What is gained is the showering…
Of luxuries
Of short lived fame.
A platform for all to become like their idol’s rise.
Upon a space of grace.
Where pride blinds us all
To be the flowing beauty from within.
Let us not pretend till the end.
When the mirror reveals our counted days.
Sagging eye lids,
Drooping lips..
And baggy chin…
Ravaged, wrinkled breasts.
Dried up raisin like balls.
Hanging in its ruins by age’s demand.
So, the lived woman and man
Now bent back
Trying….. but gave up trying to stand up straight.
Has given completely to their hereditary’s fate,
Giving away beauty
Giving away sexy
Giving away legs
Giving away and now;
Hung up for the last time their
Prancing memories and its youthful age.
For my crown has fallen from
My head to…
My neck…
And then my feet.
Is this my aging defeat?
Of course, I wish I could live those days again;
However, at my age what else do I have to defend.
For I get the spoils of an old age.
And countless grand kids,
Who are so addicted to their gadgety trends.
After all I hope that, as I come to my end;
That I become one of their trends that never ends.
In their lasting memories of me.
After I fade from this mortal scene,
I hope all those that come after me;
Will get the benefits of growing into the golden years of their collected days’ wisdom’s being.

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