Long Hillside Poems
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My name is Abioye
Into royalty i was born
I stand here today
Lost, forlorn
But the time has come
For me to stand up for my rights
To return to my Kingdom
Watch my enemy run, take flight
We of Ghana
Are Warrior Kings
My tribesmen and i
Into battle we will sing
But there lies ahead
A journey we must undertake
To reconcile my rightful Kingdom
For my peoples sake
We head along the coastline
Admiring the spread of golden beaches
Backed by plains and scrub
To our coast the greenery reaches
We cross several swollen rivers
To reach the Kwahu Plateau
Forested, rich and lush
Our lands of me, to you
Our followers grow in number
Ashanti, Kwahu and Akyem
Warriors of their tribes
Teenagers to men
We hear in the distance
The sound of beating drums
As we amass on a hillside
Boys to men, we will become
Our shields and spears are raised
Tribal chants resonate
For down the hillside we charge
The enemy at our gates
The battle lasts for hours
Many tribesmen are lost
Our Kingdom has been reclaimed
As we look around to our cost
Generations have ceased
No longer will they go on
Wives will mourn
Never to born
Many years have passed
As our Kingdom thrives and grows
No one will ever retake it
As our tribes unity, showed
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-6.php
Climbing the irregular hillside where the air was hot,
In the middle of the montane forest,
The atmosphere was tropical and so too hot.
I started my climb hoping for better fresh air,
When suddenly I saw the most beautiful bird,
Flying towards the upper branches of rainbow eucalyptus.
It was not a small bird and was so colourful,
Solid bright blue color for its wings
And tail with split eye ring and bluish-white bill.
Its wings occasionally display a red tinge.
I was told that it is one of the most beautiful
Birds called Blue Bird of Paradise, and I’m sure
It must have descended from above with bliss.
Suddenly it hung upside down, wondering why.
It did not sing but uttered a soft buzzing noise.
Slowly it fanned its feathers, an attraction to another bird.
Soon I realized this was his way to start to mate.
Silently I tiptoed down the hill and hoped
He’ll be successful in his lovemaking.
Ott's (lots) chrysanthemums in bloom
Highland Manor Apartments
affords quick jaunt
veritable exotic getaway
scant miles away
Schwenksville establishment rooted
at least last half century
local tropical paradise beckons
passer(s)by to saunter
imbibe fragrant aroma,
espy splash of color on hillside
ease hilly draw painter with palette
photographer, musician, scrivener...
especially during dead of winter,
indoor botanical garden
bounteous, capacious, herbaceous...
topography exquisitely, heavenly,
incredibly... landscaped flora
to dazzle sense and sensibility,
inebriating, intoxicating, invigorating...
metaphorical cathartic ambrosia,
potent fragrant blend
wafting within englassed green acres
buzzfeeding, kickstarting, spellbinding
pollinating, germinating, birthing...
analogous natural stimulant,
holistic, magically therapeutic
without deleterious hallucinogenic,
nor harmful narcotic qualities,
also terrific soporific,
a soothing environment
to gravitate, meditate, ruminate...
healthy psychological restorative
hypothetical scenario to heal
mental, physical, and spiritual wounds
to strengthen body,
mind, and body triage
woke benumbed atavistic
primitive *****sapiens
nihilistic grim outlook (mine)
housing grim prognostication
foreboding bleak aggrievement
impossible submission toward
apocalyptic trend to escape.
Fall season is a favored time of year
when leaves irradiate their aurum cheer.
Custard colors cloak paths with brilliantine
while misty breezes tease the woods to sheen.
A couturière flouncing haute couture,
adorning the hillside with striped hachure.
Rich gemstones of ornate colors convey
an elegance to Her brilliant bouquet.
Wild winds blow briskly and bracingly strong.
High mountain tops lace in silver sarong.
Her splendent figure, festive femme fatale,
reigns regally pluperfect pastorale.
Her flamboyant panache is très chic.
Au fond, She's decisively magnifique!
Once again the day draws near,
once again “We Have Seen His Star”.
There’s something in the air this year
drawing many both near and far.
My prayer: that there be light this Christmas
shining deep in the hearts of some.
Truth breaking forth that God is with us;
to all who would seek, He says, “Come”.
Like the Wise Men of so long ago
who said, “We have seen His Star”,
Many have sought Him and now they know,
He still calls to both, near and far.
Jesus, the joy of man’s desiring,
O, what it is that you mean to me.
You are the One I’m always admiring
as I shine your Light for all to see.
About the room are tokens of Christmas
including a tree, decorated as can be.
But my mind goes back across the years
to a hillside and another tree.
*God didn’t place HIS gift under the tree but rather-upon it!*
I walked all day excitedly in the wonderfully cool hillside
At Thimpu, the capital and a lovely town of Bhutan’s pride
At the peaks the wind and mist in a quiet seek and hide
And the venerable hills and woods standing quite satisfied
There on your face I observed timeless tranquility vivified
Revealing the feeling of infinity now untied and then tied
In the sylvan ease of nature at mountainous countryside
Mysterious mist whispered at the mesmerizing hill-divide
At the hill top glorious Buddha seated on a lotus wide
Incarnation of compassion gold-gilded and dignified
While at the ancient signs in a monastery mountainside
Surprisingly gushing forth a fountain dancingly arrived
I stared with an amazement but didn’t know the hillside
Had in an intense moment entered my heart deep inside
___________________________________________________________________
May 13, 2016
Submission for Monorhyme – Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Shadow Hamilton// Using the words: Tranquility – Sylvan – Venerable – Ancient - Mysterious
~
A beauty from Redding,
alone on a hillside,
where dreams play viola
and wishes agree
Hair spun of moonbeams.
as eyes tend to wander.
while sharing the shade
of a sycamore tree
Gathering daisies.
with petals for pulling.
near shadows now painting
designs on the ground
Following seasons.
in soft subtle colors.
past butterfly whispers
of barely a sound
Endlessly dancing.
like dandelion seedlings.
that tumble and twirl
on the gentlest breeze
Barefoot and smiling.
she wanders the valley.
along lonely pathways
with hope if you please
Watch from a distance.
with silhouettes clinging.
to yesterday’s sorrows
now left on a shelf
Don’t bother calling,
she finds fading echoes.
are nothing but trouble
in spite of herself
For, she’s an illusion,
your imagination,
now conjured inside of
the heart in your chest
Memories carried,
alone on a hillside,
while time disappears
on this fantasy quest
Life sits there waiting,
it’s losing its patience
as you find your reasons
are more than you see
In search of a beauty,
who comes down from Redding,
where dreams play viola
and wishes agree
( Mum pictured in her Welsh costume on St David's Day)
I wrote these words to fit the well known Welsh song melody 'Calon Lan' as in the audio above.
Wales to me, through childhood vision
calls to mind a country home,
full of welcome and adventure
where I once would freely roam.
Land of song and rolling hillsides
rugged coasts and golden sand,
where a rich,poetic language
kindles pride throughout the land.
I can hear the voices singing
in the mountains and the dales,
soulful harps are gently playing
calling me back home to Wales.
Land of song and rolling hillsides
rugged coasts and golden sand,
where a rich,poetic language
kindles pride throughout the land.
There my Mother's smile awaits me
and emotions soon revive
of the people we have cherished
whose fond memories survive.
Land of song and rolling hillsides
rugged coasts and golden sand,
where a rich,poetic language
kindles pride throughout the land.
17.06.20
Wales Poetry Contest sponsored by Julia Ward
'Battle of most acclaimed 2020 POEMS' Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
The potatoes are cooling in a pretty blue dish.
Looking like hillside stones or sleeping piglets.
While waiting for the litter to cool off.
I thought about the many wars being fought...
On our beautiful blue planet of the newly forsaken.
Millions of innocent lives selfishly taken.
How much money and time have been wasted.
Lobbing bombs into robin's-egg skies, no wells of life being dug.
No mustard seeds planted, while white crosses are sown.
From which nothing but heartache ever grows.
The potatoes in the pretty blue dish have cooled enough to eat.
Wars tend to harden over time and will never cease to be.
The wrecking ball long since
demolished boyhood house zen
located at 324 Level Road,
a once rural residence,
which soulful yen
I called home
since February 28th, 1968, when
Boyce and Harriet Harris
(my octogenarian
widower father, a transplanted urban
cowpoke father, and late outskirts
of poker flats mother) than
experienced livingsocial in the country,
cuz aforesaid domain didst span,
and encompass,
one hundred plus acre estate
listed in national register
as "Glen Elm", where ran
woodland surrounding a golden pond
favored by Canadian Geese,
but under game plan
of commercial developer Donald Neilson
(a tall lumbering
"all business no play doh" man
blueprints drafted for
an army of vinyl city
exemplifying Little boxes
on the hillside ditty
Little boxes made of ticky tacky...gritty
material upending wildlife refuge,
ah...what a pity
yet, impossible to stop industrialization,
the das capital way
spurring thy preferential longing
for nature preservation oye vey,
and to make a million bucks in USA
if land left off limits
for propertied class today
then in the near future,
an aggressive builder will sashay
confirming prophecy
scooping up gobs of profit
out maneuvering competition
analogous to a marathon relay
race quickly witnessing little boxes
to sprout all the same
by construction workers,
who hammer away,
nailing steady income,
viz all work and no play,
who maxim eyes
American middle class dream
asper buying affordable home
after acquiring a mortgage to outlay
their limited choice sans, may
be there's a green one and a pink one
and a blue one and yellow one, how zing
free enterprise, and they're
all made out of ticky tacky
held together on a wing
and prayer they all look