I am the watchman on the hill,
My brother’s cry, I still hear it.
Though shadows stretch and winds grow wild,
I’ll cross the dark to find the child.
Not born of blood alone is kin,
But shared the fight we hold within—
When sorrow knocks or hunger calls,
My hands become the sheltering walls.
His burden is not his to bear,
If I walk by and do not care.
The chain that binds us, forged in fire,
It was made to lift, not climb up higher.
When he is weak, then I must rise;
To clear his path, to dry his eyes.
For what am I, if not a friend
Who stays when storms refuse to end?
No stranger’s fate is far from mine,
The hurt of one disturbs the spine.
Of justice, mercy, love, and grace—
We share the wound, we share the place.
Let others turn their eyes away,
I’ll kneel beside him where he lies.
The voice of Cain may haunt the land—
But I shall reach with open hand.
For every soul, though bruised or scarred,
It is held in sacred trust, unmarred.
And I, though flawed and often blind,
Must be the keeper I would find.
So bind my heart to duty deep,
That I might guard, that I might keep—
Not just my brother, but the way
That leads us to a kinder day.
It sings with a voice that stings two skies,
That fades the summer yet can’t evade autumn.
September holds both the warmth and the cold,
Of summer’s youthfulness and autumn’s ruthlessness.
A thousand weathers still thunder one name,
As northern breezes chill, leaves whisper red on each hill.
Markyate hill, is fading now
drifting leaves from dip to brow,
her yellow crown of ash and yew
does nothing to impede the view
my dad,
my father.
climb up mountains,
he'd go farther.
hiking hills,
working hard.
paying bills
paying rent.
without that.
we'd be bent.
fixing things
that needed fixing.
breaking things
that need breaking.
my dad,
my father.
you run far,
he'd run farther.
First, we mine, then we craft, LETS MINECRAFT!!
If your choice is to climb the higher hill
You’ll need more supplies and a stronger will
For as you climb supplies will diminish
And some will be needed when you finish
If you’re looking for fun and a small thrill
You’ll find it better to choose a small hill
Choose one you can top in just a short span
With several trails up you won’t need a plan
Remember to stop if you need a rest
It isn’t a race and sure not a test
Also remember to take you a snack
Or you will get hungry when you start back
For those that went higher you paid your due
You topped the high hill you get the best view
I'll be back before it gets dark
after we get tired of playing king of the hill.
Sun sets so late in summer
against the willows..
sometimes I forget.
No, it just isn't so.
I don't always choose them over you,
'course I could never tell you that.
You're a girl, a special one.
But I can't tell you that either.
Still, when you told me your stomach hurt,
and I was the reason..
I believed you.
Don't know what to say, never seem to
'cept maybe
'Sorry you feel bad, I know that place too.'
'Put your sandals on, I'll walk you home
we can go slow.'
Oh alright - looks over her shoulder to the gang
'now we can hold hands.'
Atop thy holy hill,
Thy pine – so banished – weeps.
It reaches high for clouds of rye
But falters incomplete.
Atop thy holy hill,
Thy servants kneel and pray.
In holy stone thy bell atones
And beckons forth the day.
‘Why dost thou hide behind thy wooden doors…’
No Flag on the Hill
He woke to the hiss of burning plastic
a child's shoe, half-melted in the road.
Something like singing came from the mosque,
but it was only wind
through broken glass.
The birds left weeks ago.
Even the dogs are quiet now.
A rusted swing creaks in a schoolyard
where no one plays anymore.
A mother once painted the front gate blue.
Now it’s ash and wire.
Someone drew a border
right through our kitchen tiles.
They boil rice with rainwater and clove,
eat in silence.
Outside, a drone's red eye
blinks, blinks, blinks
and does not blink away.
Spring Hiku 7
cherry blossoms shine
l s
l i
i d
on dew-capped trees on h e s...
full moon is w I t n e s s.
What do I see,
you are looking back at me.
In my youth wearing a top of pink polka dots,
with a skirt of green and orange fabric knots.
As I looked-I laughed until I cried,
every time the wilderness mirrors walk by.
These very old mirrors are such a thrill,
they love my fashion wear even if it is over the hill.
The years have gone by,
now I am old and that is not a lie.
This wilderness of mirrors hangs high,
no more catching my youthful eye.
wild horse on a hill
so at peace with waves crashing
chilling with his friends
There was a rocky hill where I thought could rest myself,
But when I sat there; saw people as small as elves,
The sky was dark over there,
All that the self knew was- the place where I sat wasn't fair.
But my tired feet still forced me ,
The bats flew above my head with an attitude of fully being free,
The trees nearby shook its leaves and turned gray and dried,
And I felt like being on a pan to get fried.
I could hear a lady's weep,
And could also see a blood-covered sheep,
Must be a sheep for sacrifice,
All I knew was my palms were getting colder than a cube of ice!
Suddenly my breath too stopped,
But I was still alive,
And felt I did not need to breathe anymore,
And also that the whole world was a cruel battledore!
- THE STRANGE ROCKY HILL WHICH WAS TOO SCARY TO SIT AND TAKE REST FOR SOMETIME, AFTER A LONG AND TIRING WALK IN A DENSE-FOREST!!!
Fresh ocean air
Oh, take me there!
To the place below the hill
Three hundred years
I hold it dear
Ancestors can be felt still
For all I've roamed
My heart knows home
And it cannot get it's fill
How does it long!
For ancient song
And the view from mine own sill
A seat of peace
My mind's at ease
Oh, the terrors a place can kill
Soon I'll return
All else to burn
And allow my heart to spill
I plant a tree on top of the hill
and there it stood still
I water it with my tears
and it kept blooming throughout the year
and now it is spreading it’s branches everywhere
and its trunks is parachuting into the sky
but its main root is getting dry
cause no more tears are left in my eyes
the hill top tree has a short destiny
its fibrous roots are withering
and the people cannot sing.
meet me at the hill top tree
I have an important message for thee
Gather the team and come
before the mid-night hour is done
The cuts are deep and everyone is
loosing precious sleep for the
tree root runs deep in the ground
and suspicions are swelling around
You have to hold onto democracy
before it dies, get aboard the mid-night train
and your life will never be the same
the heart is were good deeds grow
and from the abundance of the heart
your emotion flows
meet me on top of the hill
I just want to sing.
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
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