Best The Hill Poems
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.
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 whirlwind through 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
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.
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!
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"
There from my window
In my mind I can see
Three crosses lined up
On the hill -----Calvary
In the middle the tall one
One on each side
Representing the place
Where my Jesus had died
I can hear on the wind
A plaintive wail
As into each hand
They have driven a nail
His arms are bound tight
To cross timbers of might
To hold His young body
Throughout the long night
I can see the sharp lance
Driven hard in His side
By the soldiers that gambled
And some that had cried
His head dripped of blood
From the crown that He wore
His life slipped away
He would breathe no more
And yet He arose
From the crypt Oh so cold
To sit with His Father
On thrones made of gold
From His station on high
He can see what's ahead
And be able to judge
The quick and the dead
And when Gabriel blows
That sound on his horn
We will all be forgiven
On resurrection morn
The sins that we all
Have committed within
Will be washed by His blood
And forgiven by Him
He promises this
In the Book I have read
Just ask for forgiveness
And your sins He will shed
His only request is
To walk in His way
And be blessed by our Jesus
Throughout everyday!
He tills within the buzzard's flight
this cruel land he calls his home,
ewe and wether, milk and bucket,
broken spirit, ne'er to roam.
He's stuck for good, the laws of nature
guide him, be they right or wrong,
gone his hopes and his compassion,
save for the curlew's mournful song.
Courted by the country lasses,
love can't penetrate this soul,
pain and grief his only help meets,
daily toil his only goal.
Mother, father, gone to dust now,
confidants who'd calm his fears,
struggling with a heavy heart,
internalizing all his tears.
It's back to digging, discompacting
stones and boulders from the earth,
working 'til there's no more sun
in Wales, the cradle of his birth.
Striving against the elements
he stretches every nerve and bone,
every muscle, every sinew,
'til exhaustion brings him home.
Ne'er a smile adorns his visage,
there simply is no time for this,
haggard, careworn, slave to nature,
racked by weather's wantonness.
Two weeks gone, and there they find him,
chided by the wind and rain,
cadavered and condemned to fester,
never to be sad again.
*******
...dedicated to the Welsh poet R.S. Thomas
and his book, 'Song At The Year's Turning.'
He was an old Crow Indian
Rejected by all his kin,
That never fit in any world,
But now lived among white men.
He must have been near one hundred
In our scale of years on earth,
And acquired a wealth of wisdom
From the first day of his birth.
All his words would tell his visions,
And I can hear them all still—
Especially his prophecy:
The dark horse upon the hill.
The time would be of many storms,
And grim changes would occur—
There would be wars and many deaths
And the bloody, silver spur.
The chiefs would be great and many,
Yet their medicine be bad—
And on the land would be defeat—
Squaws would wither and be sad.
Yet, there would still be one more feared
To trap us with his cruel will—
The one that spoke of hope and change:
That dark horse upon the hill.
And so the once great nation falls
And becomes like all the rest—
The mighty banner now unfurled
As it sinks into the West.
Yes, that old Crow saw it all then—
Now we know the coming chill—
We hold blinded eyes open to
The dark horse upon the hill.
The Autumn sun shone with golden magic
The warmth of the embrace was seen from afar
As I stood along the fence in the valley below
Inside the house are tales akin to tragic
A son had volunteered, never returned from war
The brother, when burgled, lost a limb & elbow
The mother took a job in the town's law practice
Came home too tired, to enjoy bird or flower
Tend her husband, then disabled son in back bungalow
This is the story of every house, of Al & Beatrice
Clark & Diane, Everett & Flo, by year, month, hour!
The house glowing under God's sun, hides tales of woe
There is a house up on a hill
people say ghosts roam it still
I went one night on a double dare
Just to see whats really up there
A creaky front door led me in
Into the darkness I did desend
A large staircase loomed ahead
As I climbed I was filled with dread
Then I heard a moaning sound
No one there as I looked around
I climbed those stairs to the top
What I saw made my heart stop
A lady was hanging in thin air
Bulging eyes and long red hair
Slowly she floated from above
Said I've been waiting for you love
My mouth so dry I could not yell
Down the stairs I ran like hell
Flew right out the front door
And I'm never goin back no more
carolann crowley 9/28/2012
Majesty of color, so rich, my words are still
I gaze upon their beauty, their promise to fulfill
To elevate the senses, to make one lose the will
To forfeit captivation by the violets on the hill
In regal blue and purple vein, to echo lover’s thrill
The whites and pinks of innocence in symbiotic drill
In scarlet reds, a theatre of nature’s palette, twill
I think I'll know forever, the violets on the hill
Written: January 23, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Regina Mcintosh
"There are twilight times when only the moon will muse on my misery." By POET.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shadowy stillness does embrace
Showing the town such a showplace
People are fully dressed for sleep
Love aching is a wound so deep
The trees that line the waterway
In morning softness, gentle sway
She has no will but pain and weep
Love aching is a wound so deep
A painter shares his scene with care
Each moment bears a love affair
Regain some bliss others keep
Love aching is a wound so deep
The river's voice is full of pain
Gorged in tremulous skeins of rain
With love, its beauty holds a heap
As it flows onward to the sweep
Love casts a moon hush in the gloom
Seraph love time starts to assume
The moon shone down a hillock steep
Love aching is a wound so deep
bob
bobsled
bobblehead
bobbing bouncing
bawl
AP: Honorable Mention 2020, Honorable Mention 2021
Posted on March 10, 2019
the hill
sparked by fall's bright hues. . .
nightfall's sudden chill
For Brian Strand's H I - K U Poetry Contest