True Tranquillity
The hills go rolling into the unknown,
Way, way out of view.
As if by an unseen hand they had been thrown,
Into a wide uncharted yonder, new.
A traveller, as he journeys, marches on,
Wandering o'er each tor.
Wishing to remember other days, long gone,
As each tuffet his eager feet explore.
These mounds that over centuries have shaped
Our landscape's varing scene.
With grass these elevations have been draped,
In all the tints, the tones and shades of green.
Unmoving in their grandeur, they stand supreme,
Calm and undisturbed.
Signing the way to many a rambler's dream,
And always looking composed and unperturbed.
Traverse these hillocks, search each hidden way,
From valley floor to peak.
Rise with the dawn and walk o'er soil and clay,
To find the true tranquillity you seek.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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An Illusion
A day will come
A dream will come true
And I shall traverse upon the hillocks
Searching for you.
I am waiting to see you
I am yearning to feel you
And we shall live in the valley
Knowing each other.
These hillocks are hard and high
My feet are fatigued and worn out
And someone is calling me back
Fearing lest I should collapse.
A year passes off
An army of nightmares chases me
And I know the perils of a search futile
Living a life flattened.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Transporting Minds
Steep hills stretch off into the distance, blue,
a wide expanse of valley in between.
Hawks are hovering in the sparkling sky,
and glide so elegantly o’er the scene.
Such vastness on view takes ones breath away,
transporting minds into another place.
One walks over the ground of tufted grass
green carpet, spread for miles across this space.
A river winds along its snaking way,
clear water shining bright under the sun,
And trees in thickets, dot the broad landscape,
giving sweet shade to cows, such coolness won.
To sit, to dream and thus to contemplate,
endless vistas that so attract the eye.
Nature in all its colours, fill this earth,
and compliment the wide clear azure sky.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Oahu
Here on this island, summer never sleeps.
In the green valleys, smoke in cane-time drifts
With mist—frail tide that laps the chasmed deeps
Between the steep clean hills as the sea-tide
Once washed the silent hidden hollow rifts
And unseen valleys of its unborn bride.
Sea-bride, child of earth’s red molten womb,
Daughter of fire and chaos long since sleeping,
Who were the people that made your green hills bloom?
Wedded to the seas they were, like you;
From the dark sea, while you your watch were keeping,
They came to make their destined rendezvous.
The broad bare feet step forth on virgin sand,
And eyes raise to the green eternal hills:
Gray mist, green hills and fertile red-clay land,
Alone no more. The carefree caroling laughter
Drifts inland, where valley mist distills
The songs that shall be sung forever after.
poem by S.J. Fulton
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Green, green and green
I want a holiday with a scene
Of green, green and green
A summer of green trees
A landscape of green grass
A view full of green vegetables
The colour green
Is a beauty that must be seen!
From a moving vehicles screen
And while we hold onto those machines
That deprives us of the colour green
Remember they provide us vaccines
As well as help the air to be clean
So for green, green and green
I will travel continents across and in-between
And also to any place that I have never been
I will make it routine
Just to see green, green and green
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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The Nymph's Song to Hylas
I KNOW a little garden-close
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy dawn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.
And though within it no birds sing,
And though no pillar'd house is there,
And though the apple boughs are bare
Of fruit and blossom, would to God,
Her feet upon the green grass trod,
And I beheld them as before!
There comes a murmur from the shore,
And in the place two fair streams are,
Drawn from the purple hills afar,
Drawn down unto the restless sea;
The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee,
The shore no ship has ever seen,
Still beaten by the billows green,
Whose murmur comes unceasingly
Unto the place for which I cry.
For which I cry both day and night,
For which I let slip all delight,
That maketh me both deaf and blind,
Careless to win, unskill'd to find,
And quick to lose what all men seek.
Yet tottering as I am, and weak,
Still have I left a little breath
To seek within the jaws of death
An entrance to that happy place;
To seek the unforgotten face
Once seen, once kiss'd, once reft from me
Anigh the murmuring of the sea.
poem by William Morris
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I Know The Harsh Wilderness (Roundelay)
I know the harsh wilderness, the wild veldt,
the craggy hillocks I had at times beheld,
the wide open scorching cobalt-blue sky
but the tranquillity I cannot deny.
There are some aloes growing in the crags
their orange-red flowers waving like flags,
like old spots of blood dotted on the eye
but the tranquillity I cannot deny.
Sugar-bush and medlar in spring does flower,
while grass jumps knee-high after each shower,
up in the air falcons and eagles do fly
but the tranquillity I cannot deny.
Time has not influence on this rugged land
where high cliffs are between the grass and sand,
I had seen rock-rabbits run at a single cry
but the tranquillity I cannot deny.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Tallest Tree in the Forest
Cedar forest rings my humble abode
Giants swaying in an angry wind
Rain clouds loose their watery load
Their nature is to be undisciplined
How am I to know my verdant friends
Standing here below on forest floor
While most of what is seen ascends
But for a better view I shall explore
My search begins to find the tallest tree
The one most eager to kiss a rising Sun
The climb nearly takes the best of me
Reaching highest bow I sit in adoration
From high above an endless sea of olivine
Until now…an arboreal family gone unseen
poem by Ray Lucero
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The Ruined Homestead
White birds, frightened from silver grass,
whose blood-rose breasts and wings are thrown
like petals settling down the pass,
flower the ruined homestead’s stone.
Rise from the fallen walls and scream,
crested, from the stark dead gum;
shatter the crystal of the morning’s dream
where I, across your landscape, come.
Roofless, the broken stonework frames
red arid hills, a valley where
the ghost-gums writhe like whitened flames
and desert-oaks droop their dark hair.
And when, in the crucible of the hills
the molten day has died, there stands
under the blaze of stars that fills
its night, a house not made with hands.
poem by Roland Robinson
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Window
Slowly I stretch out my arms, freely
Shadows of night disappear
Rise from the slough of despond, find the pathway
Guiding us forward through pastures of dream day
Days to enjoy, peace I knew once before me
Dawning to dusk on the hills until morning
Come see me take my hand
Come see me in my land
Flying invisibly high, watch me
All on a beautiful sky, Ill be
Clear and serene in the love Ive discovered
Long search is over, the soul is uncovered
Resting on joy that abounds without ceasing
Bidding farewell to the fears now decreasing
Come see me take my hand
Come see me in my land
High on a golden crested wave she sits
The little nymphs dance in her hair
The trees all beckon to the sky to bless their empty lives
Horizons come to sip wine there
The veiled mist reveals the wandering ship upon the reef
The albatross flies to the stern
But only jack frost saw the kiss you gave him in return
Crossing the mountains of truth see them
Soaring majestically high, and then
Stop at the warning light, see it flash brightly
Thunder awakes me, the crashes beside me
Shatters the scene and brings chaos to beauty
Leading us forward where destiny may be
Come see me take my hand
View from another land...
song performed by by Genesis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lament
Where are those dazzling hills touched by the sun,
Those crags in childhood that I used to climb?
Hidden, hidden under mist is yonder mountain,
Hidden is the heart.
A day of cloud, a lifetime falls between,
Gone are the heather moors and the pure stream,
Gone are the rocky places and the green,
Hidden, hidden under sorrow is yonder mountain,
Hidden, hidden.
O storm and gale of tears, whose blinding screen
Makes weather of grief, snow's drifting curtain
Palls th'immortal heights once seen.
Hidden, hidden is the heart,
Hidden, hidden is the heart.
poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine
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Who Dreams Multiple Mysteries?
would you believe phenomenon if I told truth
I dream multiple poems those I wake to write
message meaning manifestation set unique
perfection I dream yet awake forget cannot
write as if bliss cosmic mysteries cannot exist
within woken world where other values egos
rule within materialism which places no value
on spiritual enlightenment evolution struggles
on hidden universal mysteries never fear seek
out research into missing dark matter enter an
unknown unseen dimension hidden existence
know I wait until you join search cosmic unity
behold bliss wonderment which awaits there
would you believe miracle if I told seen truth?
unknown unseen dimension hidden quantum existence
behold bliss wonderment awaits exploration observation
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Six Feet Of Sod
This is the end of all my ways,
My wanderings on earth,
My gloomy and my golden days,
My madness and my mirth.
I've bought ten thousand blades of grass
To bed me down below,
And here I wait the days to pass
Until I go.
Until I bid good bye to friend,
To feast and fast goodbye,
And in a stint of soil the end
I seek of sun and sky.
My farings far on land and sea,
My trails of global girth
Sum up to this,--to cover me
Six feet of earth.
My home of homes I hold in fee
For centuries to pass,
When snug my skeleton will be
And grin up through the grass;
When my grey ghost will bend above,
And grieve to gracious God
This endless end of life and love,--
Six feet of sod.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Heritage
ON summer evenings when the full moon shines
Serene and fair,
High in the crystal air,
On hillsides deep in birches and in pines,
Then in all hearts there stirs a hidden fire
Of hope, or memory;
Some their beloved dead more yearningly desire,
Some dream of loves to be,
Some weep their swift and sweet mortality.
But I remember only,
Long centuries ago,
A glen more dark and lonely
Than these which now I know;
The noise of waters flowing,
And faint, salt breezes blowing,
Ivy and myrtle growing,
As here they do not grow.
There, when the moon was at full we would come, we would come,
To the shrilling of pipes, and the terrible tone of the drum ,
Rolling long, rolling loud, as the voice that presages the rain,
We would come to the cavern profound, to the holy domain.
Then in the moonlight entrancing,
Figures moved agile and fleet,
Then there was dancing, ay, dancing,
Leaping and stamping of feet,
Dancers that drifted and darted,
Light as a leaf in the breeze,
Circles that met and that parted,
While the stars danced through the trees.
Quickening, the drums beat the measure,
All the night long on the hill, -
Such was the Thunderer's pleasure. . . .
This I remember me still.
O placid northern moon on this calm lake
Beaming demure and tame,
How can I take
Aught of delight in thy pale flame?
I ache
For a communion I have known
Long centuries ago,
Which nevermore the world will seek, or know;
For a belief outgrown,
Yet how much more my own
Than creeds that hold me quiet on my knees;
For rites, that brought delights like these,
And Gods I once knew how to please.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Summer Dawn.
Come with thy feet to the water, and bathe
Thy beauty here in the stream that will not pass!
The soft green leaves with their shadows swathe
The either bank, and under the ferns and grass
The dreamy crickets chirp in the dewy dawn,
Now that the light of the stars has grown
Into a thin pale mist in the night unknown;
The small birds twitter, whose senses quite
Have not yet out of their dreams withdrawn —
Here where my heart too waits for the light
Under the cloudy hills that soon will run
With bright feet in the ways of the sun,
As if they were but chained to the air:
Come to me now so fresh and fair —
Now that the reign of Sleep is done —
With twinkling feet in the dewy dawn!
O love, as grass comes to the lawn,
As day comes to the East, come thou —
Come to me now!
poem by Robert Crawford
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The Days to Remember
Do you remember the days?
The days of Cinderella wanting to go the ball
The days of the seven dwarfs
The days when you believed in it
I remember those days
The days you held your mother’s hand
The days when you wished on a star
The days you believed that wish would come true
Do you remember the days?
The days of jump rope
The days of secret hand shakes
The days you believed it was just so easy
I remember those days
The days when you would hide and they would seek
The days of spending all day playing ball
The days you thought it would never get hard
We all remember those days
poem by Ambra Milton
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Sestina
I have come, alas, to the great circle of shadow,
to the short day and to the whitening hills,
when the colour is all lost from the grass,
though my desire will not lose its green,
so rooted is it in this hardest stone,
that speaks and feels as though it were a woman.
And likewise this heaven-born woman
stays frozen, like the snow in shadow,
and is unmoved, or moved like a stone,
by the sweet season that warms all the hills,
and makes them alter from pure white to green,
so as to clothe them with the flowers and grass.
When her head wears a crown of grass
she draws the mind from any other woman,
because she blends her gold hair with the green
so well that Amor lingers in their shadow,
he who fastens me in these low hills,
more certainly than lime fastens stone.
Her beauty has more virtue than rare stone.
The wound she gives cannot be healed with grass,
since I have travelled, through the plains and hills,
to find my release from such a woman,
yet from her light had never a shadow
thrown on me, by hill, wall, or leaves’ green.
I have seen her walk all dressed in green,
so formed she would have sparked love in a stone,
that love I bear for her very shadow,
so that I wished her, in those fields of grass,
as much in love as ever yet was woman,
closed around by all the highest hills.
The rivers will flow upwards to the hills
before this wood, that is so soft and green,
takes fire, as might ever lovely woman,
for me, who would choose to sleep on stone,
all my life, and go eating grass,
only to gaze at where her clothes cast shadow.
Whenever the hills cast blackest shadow,
with her sweet green, the lovely woman
hides it, as a man hides stone in grass.
poem by Dante Alighieri
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One Saturday Morning At The Mountain Top Inside The House
it is raining outside
it is the habitualness of the image that flows inside us
green grass and rolling hills and clouds a drifting
the sound of rain like footsteps of children playing under the shower from heaven
i sit upon a chair looking outside
i am not thinking about anything simply watching the rain
the green grass
the trees the sea and the horizon that extends more than what my eyes can see
more than what i can contain
this empty bowl with a wide mouth open
this hollowness that cannot speak because it does not have the exact words
to say
it seems to me that the correct existence that fills this void is nothing
but the silence of the trees, the grass, the hills and the far away seas
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Old Wishing Well
Oh wishing well, oh wishing
Well
Will you answer me truly
If I dropp a quarter down large
Mouth
Will you answer me truly
Oh wishing well, oh wishing
Well
I want to know if my future
Look grim
Or that of a happy life ending
Will I travel the open seas
To all the exotic islands
Will I travel the world making
My imprint on life
Will I find love in mall
Or maybe my travel afar
Here I go oh wishing well
I'm eager to know my fate
Time for my wish oh wishing
Well
So
I dropped a quarter into the wishing
Well
So excited was I
It began tumble and twirl
I can see my reflection all so well
Down
This black hole that is turning
The wishing well “said to me”
Your life will be long maybe
Prosperous
You're travel the world end to
End..
Will I find my true love that
Wait's?
Well the wishing well tumble for a
Second
'And said to me'
Just dropp me a silver dollar
Than I can tell all that you
Seek..
So I ran into my house and
Went into my big jar and found
Me silver dollar
I ran back to the wishing well and
Drop that silver dollar
That old wishing well just said to me
“Thank you kindly'
But
Next time don’t believe an old
Wishing well like me
For I have grown old and ran out
Of wishes..
And wishes don't always come true..
poem by Carolyn Sears
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The Green Dot
A green dot was wandering one day,
Where is its spot, where it can lay! ,
It delayed its arrival,
And all the green is now gone,
The green dot is wandering searching,
Goofing the streets under rain and thunder,
It moves fast and slow, gradual run,
From the shore, to the bays,
When it was deceived by the beauty of trees,
What beauty can it see, but she wasn’t comfee,
Because it wasn’t that green,
What green it could be?
What green does it belong?
It don’t know, but the search seemed to be long,
Oh! Lil green dot, lil green dot,
What is this mess all about?
The lil green dot missed its way,
And now it dun no where to stay,
Where are the other green, where is its stain?
Forever the search, Forever it will feel the pain,
To be away from the other green dots.
poem by Mustafa Ghuneim
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sligo dream of Lorca
I dream of lorca
as the hills are lit by dawn.
The Sligo landscape into view,
the farmers wife with porridge
the breakfast makes.
The farmers early breakfasting
for sheep hills to be tended,
the cows awaken in the dawn,
the son in Boston breaks the
mother distant heart,
the field yields slow.
The outline of the trees,
seen at night as shadow,
into life will come at day,
as Lorca dies beneath the blows
as Christ three times he falls.
As he falls the frosted dawn,
the yearning pining of the sligo
hill comes into view beneath
the slow sun start.
I dream of lorca as he falls beneath
the blow of ignorance, beneath
the meadow copse and field of Spain.
Though vines cry and grapes bleed.
And green is the land,
where to school by the gate he would have passed
to learning,
and the farmer eats the toast and egg,
the day is cast,
and into shape the dream emerges
from the falling down,
the falling down of Lorca,
in another place
brings in the light of day.
poem by Bernard Kennedy
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