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Best Poems Written by Tamara Hillman

Below are the all-time best Tamara Hillman poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Antebellum

I walk the lane 'neath giant oaks,
vast canopies of green,
and view the mansion at path's end,
a sight I've never seen.

My mind begins to picture
those precious days of old,
the owner of this grand house
with history yet foretold.

Of Southern Belles in ball gowns,
young men in dapper dress,
music of the harpsichord
as folks poseur their best.

Dancing, singing, merriment
revere lives without care
as servants carry laden trays
of fancy food and fare.

But all the glories of this time
were soon to be forgot
with civil war uprisings,
and horrors that men wrought.
                              
Land was scourged, mansions burned,
or plundered of their ware,
soldiers stripped the wealth from them
and pillaged without care.

"The black man needs his freedom,"
was the battle cry,
and thousands chose to take a side
for which they'd surely die.

Brother fought 'gainst brother,
father against son,
I wonder if they felt for naught 
when the war was done.

Now standing 'neath the foliage
at this mansion tall and grand,
I question, "Was it worth it,
for them to take a stand?"

Guess we'll never know the answer,
today it seems too late,
but let us long remember
what happens when men hate.

Details | Tamara Hillman Poem

The Way of It

Is it the spirit within us,
or is it adventure we seek
to travel beyond the wild side,
not stay in our traces quite meek?

The way of the wild is our nature,
challenges—mountaintop high,
searching for life’s rich fulfillment,
or looking to God asking, “Why?”

As children, we see things so different,
no bonds to hold back the mind,
no fears, no woes, no self-conscience—
only true ties that bind.

From birth we are tested and labeled
to conform to a socialized scale,
maybe for better or worse—I don’t know,
but sometimes it seems much like hell.

Torment and guilt put us under—
not always from what we have done,
but rather from what we were taught 
as right or wrong since life’s begun. 

Stresses unleashed on our ego,
competing for goals to succeed—
but is it to bathe in the glory,
or is it for purpose and need?

Let me live free as the creatures
on Earth and under the sea—
my soul needs rest from life’s sorrows—
my person wants just to be me.

Details | Tamara Hillman Poem

Reflections In the Mirror

Age 6…..	Passing the mirror, 
	she pulls at her cheeks, 
       	sticks out her tongue—
       	blonde ringlets encircle 
                a freckled face.

13…..	The mirror beckons—
                She stops to preen,
                hating wavy hair 
                that tumbles into her eyes…
                She wonders, “Am I pretty?”

18…..	A young lady, 
                ready to meet life’s challenges
                reflected now— 
                Anxious to leave home,
                and parent rules.

24…..	A bride in white,
                smiling at  her reflection 
                in the mirror—
                Mother, in the doorway,
                proudly holds her veil. 

30…..	Carpooling, PTA, 
                soccer games, late dinners—
                this is her world…
                No time to fret over
                crow’s feet in the mirror. 

40…..	Does life begin at 40?
	The mirror doesn’t lie…
                Maturity shows in her face.
	Was ‘Self’ lost between 
	motherhood and mid-life?

50…..	She discovers his affair…
	Tearfully calls Mom—
	Can she forgive?
	Out of shape, distraught,
	she sobs in front of the mirror.

60…..        Freedom, a time to just BE!
	Comfortable in her own skin—
                with time to pursue 
                her own wants and needs.
	Life is good!

70…..	Passing the hall mirror
                in her usual flurry,
	she glimpses her likeness,
	suddenly realizing—
 	she’s the image of her mother.

	         Tamara Hillman
                              ©2006

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Walk Beside Me

You've left my world
yet your aura lingers still,
I feel your ever presence
believing it's your will,

To never quite desert me,
crossing to the other side,
leaving just an open wound
of grief I must abide.

I see you in a shadow
from the corner of my eye,
and feel you sitting near me
in the bedroom when I cry.

You walk with arms around me
as we tarry in the lane,
remembering the early years
of love that shall remain.

Death can never separate
two hearts that beat as one
for God brought us together,
His will on Earth was done.

My hands reach out for yours now
in a grasp that we may share
all that life has left me
until I join you there.

Details | Tamara Hillman Poem

A Soldier's Christmas Wish

This year, at the holidays
of course, I miss home,
surrounded by sand dunes,
and Iraqi mosque-domes.

But I willingly came
to guard against fear—
not let terrorist conquer
everything I hold dear. 

I know my mom worries
about me over here
away from family, 
and good Christmas cheer.

And while I do miss
the fun and the fare,
I know I am fighting
for reasons most share— 

For Freedom, for Justice,
for our forefather’s plan,
for choices—God-given,
to every man. 

And for all you protester 
in the streets of your city,
looking upon me 
with hatred and pity,

I’m fighting for you 
to have that skewed right
to act like a fool—
burn our flag in plain sight,

For our children to prosper
without boot in their back,
and patriots guiding them,
to stay on the right track!

It’s not just our training,
but a true state of mind—
to be honest and faithful,
and love all mankind. 

I’d gladly lay down
all I can give—
my life and my soul
so that others may live.

And to let every man pray 
to the God he sees fit,
tho, I may not agree,
he’s entitled to it.

My sons and my daughters
may not know it yet,
but I fight for their future,
and have no regret.

So celebrate Christmas 
in your own merry way,
and please send a prayer
we’ll come home one day—

When this war is over,
we’ve finally won,
we’ve conquered the terrorists—
sent ‘em all on the run.

Americas worth it—
all this sacrifice,
and, Mom, don’t you worry
‘cause I wouldn’t think twice.

I’d do it again—
even die in the sand
for Freedom and Liberty,
for we MUST take a stand. 

“Merry Christmas—Blessed New Year,”
to all, I now say,
and, “Thank you, dear Jesus— 
have a Happy Birthday!”


           Tamara Hillman
                 ©2010

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Irish (Limerick)

How far I have come from dear Ireland,
                                                 from Erin to the "Land of the Free."
                                                        My heart, left on that shore,
                                                              I shall visit no more,
                                                and my image they shall never see...

Details | Tamara Hillman Poem

Country School

The little brick school house
where Mama used to go,
sets quietly atop the hill
thru' summer heat and snow.

The bell on top is silent now,
the window shutters tight,
the door is weather-beaten,
and floors an awful sight.

The old stove is still standing
in the center of the room,
Lilac bushes, long forgot,
beside brick walls still bloom.

Blackboards stretch across one end
stained with dust and chalk,
memories those walls would tell
if only they could talk.

Honored places are now faded
where president pictures hung,
Pledge of Allegiance always said
when morning bell was rung.

There's a hitchin' post for horses
the children rode to school,
no bus for transportation then 
to learn the Golden Rule.

Discipline was taught there,
honor and respect,
to take responsibility,
not leave one's youth unchecked.

The old place holds the secrets
of bygone days that passed,
of children growing tall and straight
with rules of life to last .

That dear old country school
where younsters sought their goal
within those walls of mortared brick
now stands empty of its soul.

Details | Tamara Hillman Poem

Aging (Sonnet)

Of youth, I dare not say ado, yet wait
upon the willing heart that I be spared
that visit standing at the Pearly Gates,
I bide my time, not hurried to go there.

For on this Earth I tarry not to die,
believing soul and body to unite,
hence, the tongue in silence gives no cry,
with my Lord I stand in glorious light.

Grim Reaper, oh dreaded one, be not proud
for many, not I alone, must now fight
to keep our youth in the maddening crowd,
and know that never we should fear the night.

Alas, 'tis not from aging I dispair
but from telling mirror I must beware.

Details | Tamara Hillman Poem

Moonscapes (Cinquain)

Cresent,
                                                                      curved sliver
                                                         hangs in starry darkness-
                                                     a wisp of light filling the night
                                                                       with peace.

Details | Tamara Hillman Poem

This Small Town

As I view flat prairie with mountain range beyond, morning sunshine warms me
and I know by afternoon, fierce storms may gather without warning.
I envy not the urban dweller rushing to and fro amidst stark cement barriers.
Yes, small town life suits me…

I’ll not trade nights laying head on pillow as moonlight pierces the darkness 
and coyotes cry to the far reaches like their ancestors before…No, never!
I could not, would not, give up the freedom found in these open spaces
where peaceful Amish plow behind horses harnessed in leather strap.

I proudly tell inquisitors, I met my husband dancing at the old grange hall,
then settled on the ranch his kin claimed and worked three generations back.
I feel safe, protected here among friends in this quaint little town.
Crime is not a factor—not a priority one deals with on a daily basis.

Trips to market bring no snarled traffic, no changing lights of red, yellow, green. 
Welcome is felt, not heard from silent voices behind familiar smiling eyes.
On unpaved roads I return as dust fills nose and eyes, making me sneeze
but it’s joy rather than nuisance as I jog along in our old pickup truck.

Here the family is strong, unified—respect for elders required,
blending generations of those who tamed the land before us.
Sunday church services overflow with scrubbed and shining faces
as preachers spread harmony and warnings from the Good Book. 

Camaraderie and sportsmanship are taught in this small town.
Proud parents gather in crowds to support their team at each and every event.
Discipline and morals form traditional characteristics of the region,
and authority is respected on all levels, patriotism honored.

Our children do not stray to the bright lights of the city
vandalizing, joining lost souls seeking acceptance on mean streets.
Early evening sounds of slumber echo thru’ thin walls of this old farmhouse
for morning chores greet our kids, us, in this game of sweet survival.

No, I do not envy city folks or opportunities I may have missed therein,
nor do I allow them to bring me scorn, or take pity on my soul.
I gain my worth from one greater, wiser, more forgiving than mere mortals…
I hear the voice of my Creator, and I follow where He leads.