Best Hill Poems
I must have encountered her on a hill,
Where scatterings of ferns deepened
Through insolent winds that shivered
While watching her carry a basket of daisies…
She is Loveliness, forlorn in a drowsy pathway,
More forlorn than languid endings
Or all that death can ever reach.
By trying to alienate myself from this image
A weariness brushed on a Dresden face so pale
That the luster in her eyes became stardust ,
While I designed a self-tumbling act as a ploy
To gaze at her closer , oh one divine mystery.
Just there, etches of beauty flatter her hair,
Like a dream capricious as twilight leaving
And in her almond eyes, the moon-flakes glimmer
How by chance, this silhouette found me breathless,
That I did gravitate through her bloom, weakening--
She, an air between death and forever… Loveliness on a hill.
'2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 5' Contest for Mark Toney
Re-submitted 12/18/2018
Upon a grassy hill, so long ago,
there stood a lovely 'castle', tall and white;
was built in eighteen eighty-six, aglow
with cozy rooms and firesides burning bright.
So charming were the winding stairs that flared
'neath grand cathedral ceiling's chandelier.
Outdoors, a rolling lawn and gardens shared
a rippling stony brook, so full and clear.
This 'castle' on the hill from long ago
became a fairytale- no more to see.
Now, only precious thoughts that come and go
can bring to life my fading memory.
My childhood 'castle' on the hill is gone-
our home- torn down to build a bridge upon.
It was a beautiful sunny morning so quiet and so still
As Sir Tom's Marmite army, charged up Tastebud hill
Queen Debs vast Vegemite army could see them coming
Many were overcome with sheer terror, and started running.
Debs Veggie army held their ground firing shell after shell
The Marmite army pushed forward, and unleashed hell
There were heavy losses on both sides, jars were everywhere
Then in flew the Marmite air force and attacked from the air
The small Marmite army were at first driven back
But then they launched a devastating, counter attack
The Veggie army had no stomach for such a long fight
And they all happily surrendered to the army of Marmite.
Veggie supporters in the streets were all jostled and jeered
Whilst the Victorious Marmite army were clapped and cheered
Vegemite lovers the world over were now running quite scared
And were all in safe hiding places, until a peace was declared.
Now everyone the world over can enjoy the great taste
Not settling for something, that tastes like clinical waste
So when you open the black jar with the bright yellow lid
Remember Sir Tom's army and great things that they did.
Written 4th January 2022
Dedicated to Deb, the Queen of the kingdom of Vegemite.
An escapade sweet as a marshmallow day
when tangerine dreams fed our evergreen stream.
Our magnet attraction neath radiant ray
did butter the air where the breezes did teem
in whirly-wind-roses anointing the brae.
Their scent, my surrender, romantic the scheme,
exotic the fever and dance with a flame.
Ah, rapture of capture! The wooer’s end game.
A sacred journey
proof of humans love and faith
World fights for justice
http://www.howmanysyllables.com 5-7-5
25.04.2016
- Sun :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
I took a walk down Columbia Street
Back to the place where we used to meet
Where we played as kids until after dark
And hung out together up at Dutch Hill Park
Although alone, I could hear the sound
Of laughter coming from the merry go round
Sometimes we'd meet there in the early dawn
The dance hall, pavilion and the swings are gone
I saw those pine trees and I thought of you
And all the crazy things we used to do
Like sleeping out underneath the stars
Hanging upside down from the monkey bars
A swing made from a rope and an old tire
We baked potatoes on an open fire
Squirrel nut zippers and an RC coke
Transistor radio and we'd have a smoke
We walked in the woods and we climbed some trees
We scratched our faces and we skinned our knees
Never dreaming that it would ever end
If I could, I'd do it all again my friend
Those memories I have will never part
I carry Dutch Hill Park inside my heart
And all those memories of yesteryear
Heading back home now I shed a tear.
A Little Hill in Arlington
There’s a little hill in Arlington
Where no bodies are interred
Yet crosses dot the hillside
And Taps are sometimes heard
Unlike the Unknown Soldier
With “unknowns” in the ground
This little hill in Arlington
Is for soldiers never found
I grew up without a father
He was gone when I was four
Flying for the Air Force
Back in the Korean War
His plane was ore’ the Azores
When communications ceased
The search went on for days and days
They never found a piece
My mother raised four children
Each day she learned to cope
She said until a body’s found
We’d never give up hope
The years went by just waiting
And my mother, bless her soul
Held on until her very end
To a grieving widow’s role
For fifty years we children
Had no resting place for Dad
No gravesite and no marker
No closure ever had
Then on little hill in Arlington
Where no bodies are interred
We raised a simple white cross
Dad’s Taps were finally heard
My big sister got the folded flag
And we all shed the tears
That had been bottled up inside us
For all those fifty years
Now Dad, he has a resting place
With other fallen sons
On a quiet little hillside
Right here in Arlington
Hope is a feeling that people spend years believing in, not because it leads them to a place full of flowers,
but because it's the only thing anyone doesn't doubt. Then there is no difference between the lust of achieving and the act of believing in it.
And when that kind of soul grips the handle of the sword—the sword that once provided power to the soul who had lost everything to stand in the world—
that sword develops a second edge because of the one holding it, and it causes damage to both the good and the bad.
Hope is like a hill. If you think—you can walk on it as long as you have strength, believing that at the end you will achieve the salvation you always wanted.
You start to believe in the shadow of hope because it seems beautiful and sweet. To ask someone for your deeds, and to think they will fulfill your wish—that is belief, not hope,
because that is what people are running behind: doing good deeds by suffering so they don’t have to suffer after death.
But at the top of the hill there is no peak, because you never wanted to find it. That hill has lost its top now—it only has an edge where a man can see a flowing river of water.
And while looking at it, a man loses something: it could be belief or salvation, but not hope—
because it was lost when you laid your foot on the hill. That is when hope becomes belief, and that day, a side of humanity was born—one no soul had ever witnessed, yet one everyone became a part of.
It was nineteen ninety nine
a battle was about to begin
between the Indian Army
with the soldiers from Pakistan
My name is Yogendra Singh Yadav
a grenadier awarded the Param Vr Chakra
the highest honour for gallantry
this is how the fight begun
A stone loosened and fell as we climbed that hill
after three nights of carefully silently climbing
the Pakistan soldiers opened fire
from bunkers metres above us not a good thing
Neither up or down we could go
heavy firing caused eighteen officers and men
to retreat leaving just seven jawans
with one hundred and thirty five men above us then
We fired at the nearest bunker killing the men
the Pakistani army came to assess our strength with ten men
managed to kill eight but two of them escaped able
to report back now we were in a predicament
I carried twenty five kilo of ammunitions
the battle was fierce, we killed thirty five of them,
my six soldiers were killed also,
I was alone, lying amongst the corpses
They shot at the corpses making sure all were dead
I received fifteen gunshot injuries and my gun was taken
had grenade in my pocket, i pulled the ring and threw
landed in cap of one of the soldiers, exploded,he was on his way to heaven
They thought the indian army had returned
I picked up a Peeka rifle off one of the Pakistani soldiers
killing five soldiers, heard the voice saying retreat
to attack a MMG base further down the hill
I dumped myself in a drain, in no time was at base
saw the officer Lt.Balwan advised Pakistan army was on its way
Charlie and Delta was deployed to help Bravo Company
This resulted in the hill being taken by the Indian Army
This war took seven hours, and Tiger Hill was safe
I have been given a plot of land by the Utah Pradesh Government for my part in the battle.
Reference I used
Targil Battle - Tiger Hill (I put that name into search engine). Seven hour battle that won Tiger Hill.
Penned 4 April 2015
Against a browning hill
oak trees' bleeding limbs are stretched;
some drops release to softly fall
some cling to dry encrusted scars.
A few short months and we will walk
beneath the springing trees
marking their swords of thinnest green
stabbing at the stars.
And so, life seasons make their rounds
in nature and in men
the flower wilts, the rose is pruned,
the leaves must fall again.
Everything of lasting worth
contains a seed of loss;
on young love's throbbing circlet
hangs a bitter cross.
We will walk life's lanes together,
cherishing this pain we share
for spring will come tomorrow
and bloom on our despair.
Copyright, November 11, 2014
I can see the past glory, though it is humble now and all the more reverent....
With thoughts of deep ocean bliss,
that comes with fading hope,
I walked along the tide line,
no longer able to cope.
I stared at the setting sun,
its brightness, burns the eyes.
I glanced back at the sand stone cliffs,
where a building caught my eye.
I don't recall it being there,
when I traveled the cliff top path.
I shrugged my shoulders then turned back,
to the ocean and waiting death.
I take a step towards my fate,
when I feel a tap upon my shoulder.
I turn to see who is there,
all I see is sand and boulders.
My eyes are called to the top
and to that small building.
Something there outweighed my need,
so up the cliff path I started walking.
There upon the windswept crest,
were trees leaning with the wind.
I followed the overgrown stone walk,
to the building, just round the bend.
The steeple leaned, but still spoke volumes.
No stained glass to catch the sun.
No bell to call folks to service,
no roof, as the rot had won.
Yet a charm was there to see,
strength came from the ancient stones,
that made up the four standing walls,
of this Chapel, now just bones.
I made my way to the entrance,
amid dead leaves, the scrag that enfolds.
I felt a welcome pour over me,
as I crossed over the threshold.
The setting sun cast long shadows,
that all pointed toward the alter.
My need, took me down the aisle.
Not once did my feet falter.
There He was, looking down,
from a weather beaten cross.
His countenance both pain and love,
I suddenly felt small and lost.
The sun sank deep into the sea,
and gave its final flair.
Within that light I swear I saw,
His face lift, so he saw me there.
I fell to my knees and I prayed,
as I had never prayed before.
I prayed for guidance and His love,
I felt both, to my very core.
I visit that Chapel, now and then.
It's still crumbling with time.
But, to me it has more glory now,
than it did when its bells did chime.
Paula Swanson 9/25/2011
For the contest; Church By The Ocean
Sponsored By Constance La France
Placement: 1st
Age fifty comes and you thought forty bad?
Some little aches and pains will start to fill
your weary body, but don’t be too sad,
for you can say you got up to that hill
and over it! And what a thrill it was!
Now sixty comes along and oh, what fun!
You get to study medicine because
diseases you’d not heard of have begun
to plague you from your head down to your toes.
You have to be content with salads or
face diabetes, and what else? Who knows!
Mid-sixties you’ll learn what retirement’s for.
It’s time to change your ways or even worse,
by seventy you’ll end up in a hearse
For Sara Kendrick's "Which Of The Four Would You Choose" Contest!
Moments pass away as distant church bells dirge;
their widow’s woe in windy waver trembles my tears.
Up the westward hill smoldering neath sunset’s pyre, I carry
the remains of our song in the broken beats of my being, yearning
to yield to burning skies and surrender to spiralling empathic embers.
Susan Ashley
May 24, 2019
~ First Place ~
Contest: May Premier 8 (4 - 5 Lines Max)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Posting early on a dozing suburban
hill
Mays warming morning rises and
Gently wakes.
The dewy hares move through the
Earthy till,
Small dry twigs the nesting pigeons
take.
Blue-high sky clear as an Ocean
Layers the heat upon red brick
streets;
Roads built over stubbled tracts
Deeply rutted from the ploughs
devotion,
Where once great fields of swaying
wheat.
Covered by neat gardens of square
disproportion
where blackbirds scold and tumble
Between the breeze;
Rushing madly through the tangled,
Variegated fauna,
Dashing around lines of neatly
Planted trees.
Quietly strolling the waking hour
Comes brightly,
Tripping like the splashing, pebble
Washed stream:
Wistfully recalling the woodsman,
Elk, and otter,
As it flows away,
Forever lost in dreams.
On a bright sunlit morning, washed brilliant with clover,
the day was alive with complacency, as color.
The day had no reason to quiver off course.
A cat in a tree, was stalking a bird,
and people were rising, to go off to work.
No one was thinking of nuclear things.
Below, in the trenches, a watchman has wandered,
checking a gage, and turning a page, of an old manual cover.
He scratches his head, and ponders a problem,
wondering how numbers could be out of order?
His heart rate goes up, his blood pressure rises.
He is wise to a problem and soon he's alarmed
He sets off the buzzers, but knows much too late,
the tremor he felt, was not only his own.
But instead, is the syndrome, we've always ignored,
Something horrendous.........Oh, God, what will come,
of the innocent families who live in the zone?
People arising, beginning their day
who scurry their children, in a rush off to school.
and husbands who carry a lunch in their pail,
punching a time clock, to work at the mill.
Just an ordinary day, in the lives of the men,
women, and children who live 'neath the hill.
"The Hill", that will bring them the end of the world.
Living their lives, on a tightrope so thin,
daylight begins, but how will it end?
A tremble so mild, invisible wave,
has seeped from the waste, with a radiant hand,
to swollow landscape, and burn with the sun.
As heart rates get higher, blood pressure rises,
the tremor we feel, is that of our own.
Oh, God, what becomes
of the innocent targets who dwell in the zone,
men, woman, children......who live 'neath the hill?
"The Hill" that will bring them the end of their world.
___________________________________________
The China Syndrome For Contest: "Equations"