The Wild Hills
Fly me across the wild hills in autumn,
With soft amber shades, brown, russet and brick,
Peach, copper and bronze all blending together,
A carpet of sadness, in this sight so tragic.
Fly me across the wild hills in winter,
With amethyst shades, puce, purple and grey,
Blue, ebony and pewter, all fusing together,
A carpet of starkness, in this scene of decay.
Fly me across the wild hills in springtime,
With pale emerald shades, sage, olive and lime,
White, yellow and silver, all mingling together,
A carpet of lushness, in this new view sublime.
Fly me across the wild hills in summer,
With magenta bright shades, pink, dark mauve and red,
Lemon, orange and gold all in harmony together,
A carpet of richness, in this panorama spread.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Autumn Shades
All too soon autumn shades appear
As another summer’s end draws near.
Colors surrender to fall’s gold.
Smooth surfaces wither, warp and fold.
Amber amid bronze litters the sky
From leaves that dance and flutter by.
A few spots still hoard their green
Protesting the kaleidoscoping scene.
Sun’s yellow bows to a pale moon.
Dark night will rule the day so soon.
Brown splotches, then orange are found,
As sap hibernates ‘neath the ground.
The garden’s carpet is embossed
With remnants from an early frost,
Whose touch of icing in the night
Leaves a preview of winter’s white.
Autumn shades fade, but remember:
Rainbows spring forth from December.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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A Season’s Carpet
I sat on a bench,
and watched the autumn leave fall.
A gentle breeze would shake them loose,
until they drifted to the ground.
Soon there is a carpet of leaves,
red, yellow and brown,
dancing with the wind
inches above the ground.
Another season ending,
as the autumn leave come drift down.
Winter would soon be here,
with another carpet grand.
This one would be a carpet white with snow,
and would stretch right across the land.
Another carpet for another season
would soon be close at hand.
poem by David Harris
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Dawn Notes
Through a window pane in Worcester,
a scene Cezanne might have have painted,
sky of cornflower blue, Pyrenees replaced
by pale violet band of Malvern hills.
Trees, fifteen shades of green, surround
higgedly piggedly, sugar cube houses,
burnt sienna rooves jostle with
sun smeared, off white walls.
Emerald swarth of a rugby pitch
(this is not a football town)
draws the panorama to the
sleep kissed morning eye.
poem by Neil Crawford
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Wild Peaches
1
When the world turns completely upside down
You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore
Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore;
We'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town,
You'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown
Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold colour.
Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,
We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown.
The winter will be short, the summer long,
The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,
Tasting of cider and of scuppernong;
All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all.
The squirrels in their silver fur will fall
Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.
2
The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass
Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold.
The misted early mornings will be cold;
The little puddles will be roofed with glass.
The sun, which burns from copper into brass,
Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold
Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold
Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.
Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover;
A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year;
The spring begins before the winter's over.
By February you may find the skins
Of garter snakes and water moccasins
Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear.
3
When April pours the colours of a shell
Upon the hills, when every little creek
Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake
In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell,
When strawberries go begging, and the sleek
Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak,
We shall live well -- we shall live very well.
The months between the cherries and the peaches
Are brimming cornucopias which spill
Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black;
Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches
We'll trample bright persimmons, while you kill
Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback.
4
Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones
There's something in this richness that I hate.
I love the look, austere, immaculate,
Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.
There's something in my very blood that owns
Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate,
A thread of water, churned to milky spate
Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones.
I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray,
Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves;
That spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath,
Summer, so much too beautiful to stay,
Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves,
And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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Blue Wonder Power Milk
I wonder why
I feel inside
A red green light
But I can enjoy
Blue wonder power milk
I wonder why
I feel inside
A red green light
But I can enjoy
Blue wonder power milk
Custom-made eyes open wide
Custom-made eyes
Open and dive
In wild-molten wine
Wild-molten wine
Wild-molten wine
She saw me talking with this double chin girl
Felt repulsion only I could enjoy
Amazing discoveries
She used to drink blue wonder power milk
Romantic carpet
Spread it out
To find solutions
Lots of doubts
Romantic carpet
Soaked with
Soaked with wild-molten wine
Wild-molten wine
Wild-molten wine
Can I be your ...
Can I feel your ...
Can I see your ...
(repeat til the end)
(thanx you very much)
song performed by by Hooverphonic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nowhere To Hide
I drove through each dancing, tumbling leaf,
that rolled with great speed across the street.
And as the wind blew, each did retreat
to their final destiny, too brief.
With such gaiety they twirled and spun,
partying with unleashed energy.
Perhaps they were up to devilry,
enjoying themselves when day was done.
Their colours were of the richest kind,
gold, orange, yellow, red, beige and brown.
With gentle ease they had fluttered down,
copper richness on the ground combined.
With this spectacle each year to view,
it warms our hearts before winter-tide.
When trees become bare, nowhere to hide,
grey starkness against the blue sky’s hue.
Stopping the car, I opened the door,
treading on layers of duplicate shades.
Dazzling eyes, before foliage fades
into a cold and frozen earth’s floor.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Ballad Maker
ONCE I loved a maiden fair,
Over the hills and jar away,
Lands she had and lovers to spare,
Over the hills and far away.
And I was stooped and troubled sore,
And my face was pale, and the coat I wore
Was thin as my supper the night before
Over the hills and far away.
Once I passed in the Autumn late,
Over the hills and jar away,
Her bawn and barn and painted gate,
Over the hills and jar away.
She was leaning there in the twilight space,
Sweet sorrow was on her fair young face,
And her wistful eyes were away from the place,
Over the hills and jar away.
Maybe she thought as she watched me come,
Over the hills and jar away,
With my awkward stride and my face so glum,
Over the hills and jar away.
Spite of his stoop, he still is young,
They say he goes the Shee among,
Ballads he makes; I've heard them sung
Over the hills and jar away.
She gave me good-night in gentle wise,
Over the hills and jar away,
Shyly lifting to mine, dark eyes,
Over the hills and jar away.
What could I do but stop and speak,
And she no longer proud, but meek?
She plucked me a rose like her wild-rose cheek-
Over the hills and jar away.
To-morrow Mavourneen a sleeveen weds,
Over the hills and jar away,
With corn in haggard and cattle in sheds,
Over the hills and jar away.
And I who have lost her, the dear, the rare-
Well, I got me this ballad to sing at the fair,
Twill bring enough money to drown my care,
Over the hills and jar away.
poem by Padraic Colum
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Julia
When the leaves
Turn from green to brown
And autumn shades
Come tumbling down
To leave a carpet on the ground
Where we have laid
When winter leaves her branches bare
And icy breezes chill the air
The freezing snow lies everywhere
My darling
Will we still be there?
Julia
When spring rejoices
Down the lane
And everything is new again
Will everything be
Just the same
Will we be there?
Oh julia
song performed by by Eurythmics
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Colours
Green is the carpet that covers the hill
White is the sheep who is eating his fill,
Blue is the curtain that hangs overhead
Black is the darkness that's better not said.
Purple is kingly and rightly should be
Brown is the earth as it holds you and me,
Yellow is summer and warm like the sun
Red at the end of the day when it's done.
Grey is a bleak day and filled with the rain
Always uncertain and so to remain,
Silver is quickly, and costly is gold,
But lovely are poems
When once they are told.
Written Feb 1994
poem by John Carter Brown
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Appreciation
Stop for a moment.
Open up your eyes
and see the entire splendor
under the skies.
The shades of green
covering the land,
The shades of blue water
in front of the sand,
The shades of red
that come at night
when you are viewing
a sunset's light,
The shades of yellow
in a glorious field
when daffodils bloom
in a springtime yield.
Now close your eyes
and keep them in mind
and the splendor stays with you
you will find.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Over The Hills
The old hound wags his shaggy tail,
And I know what he would say:
It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills, and away.
There's nought for us here save to count the clock,
And hang the head all day:
But over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
Here among men we're like the deer
That yonder is our prey:
So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The hypocrite is master here,
But he's the cock of clay:
So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The women, they shall sigh and smile,
And madden whom they may:
It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
Let silly lads in couples run
To pleasure, a wicked fay:
'Tis ours on the heather to bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The torrent glints under the rowan red,
And shakes the bracken spray:
What joy on the heather to bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The sun bursts broad, and the heathery bed
Is purple, and orange, and gray:
Away, and away, we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
poem by George Meredith
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The Purple Sage
Purple sage is a beautiful thing,
Flowering in violet,
In winter or spring.
The leaves vary from silver to green,
It grows wild in Texas,
Of the wild it's the king.
Flowers are white, purple, or pink,
But only the purple,
Makes you mind stop and think.
Songs and stories, have come down through time,
Of the purple sage,
In it's inhospitable climes.
If your'e ever in Texas, come check it out,
Cause the purple sage,
Is what Texas is about.
11/15/10 Alton Texas
poem by Juan Olivarez
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Indian Summer
Along the line of smoky hills
The crimson forest stands,
And all the day the blue-jay calls
Throughout the autumn lands.
Now by the brook the maple leans
With all his glory spread,
And all the sumachs on the hills
Have turned their green to red.
Now by great marshes wrapt in mist,
Or past some river's mouth,
Throughout the long, still autumn day
Wild birds are flying south.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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Sonnet V. To The South Downs
AH! hills beloved!--where once, a happy child,
Your beechen shades, 'your turf, your flowers among,'
I wove your blue-bells into garlands wild,
And woke your echoes with my artless song.
Ah! hills beloved!--your turf, your flowers remain;
But can they peace to this sad breast restore,
For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain,
And teach a breaking heart to throb no more?
And you, Aruna!--in the vale below,
As to the sea your limpid waves you bear
Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow,
To drink a long oblivion to my care?
Ah! no!--when all, e'en Hope's last ray is gone,
There's no oblivion--but in death alone!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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The Gippsland Hills
The hills of Gippsland were so green but that was in September
And songbirds piping happy songs as well I might remember
But now the Gippsland hills are gray since sun changed the grass colour
And though the sun shines hot today this countryside looks duller.
The Gippsland hills were green in Spring and grass growing winds were blowing
And all along the sunlit hills the wildering flowers were showing
And bell magpie piped his joyful notes and butcherbird was singing
And through those hills those happy hills the bushlark's voice went ringing.
The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills grown lonelier and quieter
And like the shades of old man's hair they've turned a gray type whiter
The nearby creek in trickle flow, the birds have lost their voices
And not one of Nature's minstrels now on Gippsland hills rejoices.
The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills have lost their Spring like colour
And though the sun shines hot today the Gippsland hills look duller
But Spring bring green to Gippsland hills Spring rains and soft winds blowing
And birds will sing on Gippsland hills and Gippsland creeks fast flowing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Our Canadian Woods In Early Autumn
I have passed the day ’mid the forest gay,
In its gorgeous autumn dyes,
Its tints as bright and as fair to the sight
As the hues of our sunset skies;
And the sun’s glad rays veiled by golden haze,
Streamed down ’neath its arches grand,
And with magic power made scene and hour
Like a dream of Faerie Land.
The emerald sheen of the maple green
Is turned to deep, rich red;
And the boughs entwine with the crimson vine
That is climbing overhead;
While, like golden sheaves, the saffron leaves
Of the sycamore strew the ground,
’Neath birches old, clad in shimmering gold,
Or the ash with red berries crowned.
Stately and tall, o’er its sisters all,
Stands the poplar, proud and lone,
Every silvery leaf in restless grief
Laments for the summer flown;
While each oak and elm of the sylvan realm,
In brilliant garb arrayed,
With each other vie, ’neath the autumn sky,
In beauty of form and shade
When wearied the gaze with the vivid blaze
Of rich tints before it spread—
Gay orange and gold, with shades untold
Of glowing carmine and red—
It can turn ’mid the scene to the sombre green
Of the fir, the hemlock, the pine,
Ever-keeping their hue, and their freshness, too,
’Mid the season’s swift decline.
Though the bird’s sweet song, that the summer long
Hath flowed so sweet and clear
Through the cool, dim shades of our forest glades,
No longer charms the ear,
A witching spell, that will please as well
As his glad notes, may be found
In the solemn hush, or the leaves’ soft rush,
As they thickly strew the ground.
For, though they tell of summer’s farewell,
Of their own decay and doom,
Of the wild storm-cloud and the snow’s cold shroud,
And the days of winter’s gloom,
The heart must yield to the power they wield,—
Alike tender, soothing, gay—
The beauties that gleam and that reign supreme
In our woods, this autumn day.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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A leaf blade
In spring, as velvet
Soft and brown,
In summer, a carpet
Firm and green,
In autumn, a doormat
Coarse and yellow
And in winter, a wire-mesh
White like a skeleton,
A leaf blade lives through,
With its glory buried with it.
16.10.2005
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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I Am A Highway
Pearls and swine bereft of me
Long and weary my road has been
I was lost in the cities
Alone in the hills
No sorrow or pity for leaving I feel
(chorus)
I am not your rolling wheels
I am the highway
I am not your carpet ride
I am the sky
Friends ans liars don't wait for me
I'll get on all by myself
I put millions of miles
Under my heels
And still too close to you
I feel
(chorus)
I am not your rolling wheels
I am the highway
I am not your carpet ride
I am the sky
I am not your blowing wind
I am the lightning
I am not your autumn moon
I am the night
song performed by by Audioslave
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How Many Shades Of Green
HOW MANY SHADES OF GREEN
How many shades of green
Olive green
Dark green
Light green
Yellow green
How many shades of yellow
Deep yellow
Rose yellow
Sun yellow
Morning light yellow
How many shades of light
How much light
How much Beauty in the world
How much Light-
How much- God.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Captivating Sight
The artist's brush scoops up the shades of green,
and creates a scene.
Trees, banks, deep valleys, fields and gentle hills,
how the picture fills.
Some vivid yellows in the sunshine's rays,
on his canvas, blaze.
Rich blue envisaged in the summer sky,
is the perfect dye.
Such subtle shadows to be applied in black,
require the knack.
The whole portrayal is a captivating sight,
with highlights, white.
Then somewhere you'll find a signature in grey,
inscribed - Manet.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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