Art And Life
When Art goes bounding, lean,
Up hill-tops fired green
To pluck a rose for life.
Life like a broody hen
Cluck-clucks him back again.
But when Art, imbecile,
Sits old and chill
On sidings shaven clean,
And counts his clustering
Dead daisies on a string
With witless laughter….
Then like a new Jill
Toiling up a hill
Life scrambles after.
poem by Lola Ridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Miranda
My dear one is mine as mirrors are lonely,
As the poor and sad are real to the good king,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.
Up jumped the Black Man behind the elder tree,
Turned a somersault and ran away waving;
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely.
The Witch gave a squawk; her venomous body
Melted into light as water leaves a spring,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.
At his crossroads, too, the Ancient prayed for me,
Down his wasted cheeks tears of joy were running:
My dear one is mine as mirrors are lonely.
He kissed me awake, and no one was sorry;
The sun shone on sails, eyes, pebbles, anything,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.
So to remember our changing garden, we
Are linked as children in a circle dancing:
My dear one is mine as mirrors are lonely,
And the high, green hill sits always by the sea.
Fetching Water
Come on now; let’s go fetch some water
grab a pail in each hand and let’s go.
Down the hill, to the pond in the holler,
then we’ll climb back up the hill with that water!
Everyone today has forgotten
what it’s like to haul water in a pail.
Every house must have a Jacuzzi,
and a big swimming pool, as well.
Come on now; let’s go fetch some water
grab a pail in each hand and let’s go.
Down the hill, to the pond in the holler,
then we’ll climb back up the hill with that water!
And our homes must have a green lawn
to keep it looking really good!
The water we waste on that green grass
could be used by the farmer to grow food.
Come on now; let’s go fetch some water
grab a pail in each hand and let’s go.
Down the hill, to the pond in the holler,
then we’ll climb back up the hill with that water!
Don’t waste all of that precious water.
We have worked too hard to bring it here.
We can’t live without that precious water
let’s be thankful that it is so near.
Come on now; let’s go fetch some water
grab a pail in each hand and let’s go.
Down the hill, to the pond in the holler,
then we’ll climb back up the hill with that water!
Don’t be taking the water from the farmer
without it his crops will never grow.
All of life depends upon the water
Don’t take it for granted anymore.
Come on now; let’s go fetch some water
grab a pail in each hand and let’s go.
Down the hill, to the pond in the holler,
then we’ll climb back up the hill with that water!
poem by Emma Beverage
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hill
Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,
The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
One passed in a fever,
One was burned in a mine,
One was killed in a brawl,
One died in a jail,
One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,
The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?—
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
One died in shameful child-birth,
One of a thwarted love,
One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,
One of a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire,
One after life in far-away London and Paris
Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,
And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,
And Major Walker who had talked
With venerable men of the revolution?—
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
They brought them dead sons from the war,
And daughters whom life had crushed,
And their children fatherless, crying—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where is Old Fiddler Jones
Who played with life all his ninety years,
Braving the sleet with bared breast,
Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,
Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?
Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,
Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove,
Of what Abe Lincoln said
One time at Springfield.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Folks Who Live On The Hill
Folks Who Live on the Hill
((1937) Oscar Hammerstein II, Jerome Kern)
Someday we'll build a home on a hilltop high,
You and I,
Shiny and new a cottage that two can fill.
And we'll be pleased to be called,
"The folks who live on the hill".
Someday we may be adding a thing or two,
A wing or two.
We will make changes as any fam'ly will,
But we will always be called,
"The folks who live on the hill".
Our veranda will command a view of meadows green,
The sort of veiw that seems to want to be seen.
And when the kids grow up and leave us,
We'll sit and look at the same old view,
Just we two.
Darby and Joan who used to be Jack and Jill,
The folks like to be called,
What they have always been called,
"The folks who live on the hill".
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jack and Jill
No more Hill for Jack and Jill,
This brave Country's fight is over,
We have now gone down the Hill,
And we're all now in foreclosure.
poem by Sandra Feldman
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Halfway Over The Hill
BY BARRY MANILOW
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I've been workin' all my life
Workin' hard for all my life
Tryin' to find a reason for livin'
Tryin' not to take too much without givin'
Never saw no rainbows in my sky
But don't you see I'm
Halfway over the hill
I'm passin' over the hardest part
I'm halfway over the hill
It's gotta get easier from now on
I've been runnin' all my life
Lord, I've run for all my life
Seein' joy and seein' people grievin'
Seein' towns and don't remember leavin'
Never saw no blue birds in my sky
But don't you see I'm
Halfway over the hill
I'm passin' over the hardest part
I'm halfway over the hill
It's gotta get easier from now on
Oh I'm halfway over the hill
I'm passin' over the hardest part
I'm halfway over the hill
It's gotta get easier from now on
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From a Railway Carriage
Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And here is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart runaway in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill, and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone forever!
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Diabolist
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
My deepest thoughts
I cannot share
even with my dearest friends.
When I pour my heart out,
when I sing the blues,
their cloven lips
clap, claptrap
on the evening news.
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
In the solid core of my mind,
I realize,
Satan can accomplish
nothing without acquiescence.
For all his evil deeds
he needs accomplices.
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
From time to time
the Adversary baits and switch.
Discontent is his arsenal tool.
He plays us for the fool
with his enticements.
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
Fighting off Diabolist,
anticipating his tricks.
We knew he could act,
we knew he could rap
and we both knew he is wily like that.
poem by Buxton Shippy
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A Niagara Landscape
Heavy with haze that merges and melts free
Into the measureless depth on either hand,
The full day rests upon the luminous land
In one long noon of golden reverie.
Now hath the harvest come and gone with glee.
The shaven fields stretch smooth and clean away,
Purple and green, and yellow, and soft gray,
Chequered with orchards. Farther still I see
Towns and dim villages, whose roof-tops fill
The distant mist, yet scarcely catch the view.
Thorold set sultry on its plateau'd hill,
And far to westward, where yon pointed towers
Rise faint and ruddy from the vaporous blue,
Saint Catharines, city of the host of flowers.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Lavender Hill
I want to walk eternity,
In through the land of make believe.
And watch the clouds roll over me,
And let the sun shine down on me.
The only place that I wanna be,
Lavender hill for me.
Wish I could live on sugar and milk,
Then I could live on lavender hill.
Then I could raise my head to the sky,
And let the sun saturate me with love.
I wanna walk you up lavender hill,
Everybody loves lavender hill.
Even the bird that sits in the tree,
Seems to sing sweet melodies.
Even the breeze is whispering,
Lavender hill for me.
While people eat their biscuits with tea,
They dream of daffodils that sway in the breeze.
And every sunday afternoon,
Tidy ladies shine their shoes.
And every little lady dreams,
Lavender memories.
Lavender hill for me.
Lavender hill for me.
I wanna walk you up lavender hill.
I wanna walk you up lavender hill.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Orchid Atop The Manipal Hill!
Blossomed an Orchid, atop a small hill!
Amidst wild grass, shrubs and wild life that kill;
The hill-top’s plateau underwent much change,
In a short span of time, in varied range;
The landscape into a township became,
The wilderness vanished, buildings came;
Made from the hill’s laterite, rose to fame,
And etched for itself an especial name!
It was harder than the hardest known brick;
The local manpower built it up quick;
No longer did the Tigers, Leopards prowl;
Nor could you hear the Hyena’s howl!
A Citadel had sprung up on the hill;
Just one man’s missionary zeal, vision still;
Did make this amazing reality,
Happen with his unique effort, mighty;
A medical-man turned business-man!
The pioneer of the Manipal-group
Of Educational Institutions;
Who broke records with his string of ventures,
An achievement rare for an Indian.
Over-looking the Arabian sea,
Now stands the esteemed M.A.H. E.;
Where the low hill came to its end-point,
Rose in leaps and bounds, a family-joint!
From the poor man’s pittance saved,
The Syndicate Bank’s foundation was paved;
Some acres of land were purchased for use,
To house the many Institutes;
The whole venture was made self-sufficient;
By the money, the Bank wisely lent;
The hill was reclaimed from its landscape wild,
It was the great TMA Pai’s brain-child!
This ORCHID blossoms on Manipal-hill,
Of beauty and splendour, unequalled still!
poem by John Celes
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Suppose
IF 'twere fair to suppose
That your heart were not taken,
That the dew from the rose
Petals still were not shaken,
I should pluck you,
Howe'er you should thorn me and scorn me,
And wear you for life as the green of the bower.
If 'twere fair to suppose
That that road was for vagrants,
That the wind and the rose,
Counted all in their fragrance;
Oh, my dear one,
By love, I should take you and make you,
The green of my life from the scintillant hour.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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To Louise
OH, the poets may sing of their Lady Irenes,
And may rave in their rhymes about wonderful queens;
But I throw my poetical wings to the breeze,
And soar in a song to my Lady Louise.
A sweet little maid, who is dearer, I ween,
Than any fair duchess, or even a queen.
When speaking of her I can't plod in my prose,
For she's the wee lassie who gave me a rose.
Since poets, from seeing a lady's lip curled,
Have written fair verse that has sweetened the world;
Why, then, should not I give the space of an hour
To making a song in return for a flower?
I have found in my life — it has not been so long —
There are too few of flowers — too little of song.
So out of that blossom, this lay of mine grows,
For the dear little lady who gave me the rose.
I thank God for innocence, dearer than Art,
That lights on a by-way which leads to the heart,
And led by an impulse no less than divine,
Walks into the temple and sits at the shrine.
I would rather pluck daisies that grow in the wild,
Or take one simple rose from the hand of a child,
Than to breathe the rich fragrance of flowers that bide
In the gardens of luxury, passion, and pride.
I know not, my wee one, how came you to know
Which way to my heart was the right way to go;
Unless in your purity, soul-clean and dear,
God whispers his messages into your ear.
You have now had my song, let me end with a prayer
That your life may be always sweet, happy, and fair;
That your joys may be many, and absent your woes,
O dear little lady who gave me the rose!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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10,000 Men
Ten thousand men on a hill,
Ten thousand men on a hill,
Some of m goin down, some of m gonna get killed.
Ten thousand men dressed in oxford blue,
Ten thousand men dressed in oxford blue,
Drummin in the morning, in the evening theyll be coming for you.
Ten thousand men on the move,
Ten thousand men on the move,
None of them doing nothin that your mama wouldnt disapprove.
Ten thousand men digging for silver and gold,
Ten thousand men digging for silver and gold,
All clean shaven, all coming in from the cold.
Hey! who could your lover be?
Hey! who could your lover be?
Let me eat off his head so you can really see!
Ten thousand women all dressed in white,
Ten thousand women all dressed in white,
Standin at my window wishing me goodnight.
Ten thousand men looking so lean and frail,
Ten thousand men looking so lean and frail,
Each one of em got seven wives, each one of em just out of jail.
Ten thousand women all sweepin my room,
Ten thousand women all sweepin my room,
Spilling my buttermilk, sweeping it up will a broom.
Ooh, baby, thank you for my tea!
Baby, thank you for my tea!
Its so sweet of you to be so nice to me.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet 03
Life ever seems as from its present site
It aimed to lure us. Mountains of the past
It melts, with all their crags and caverns vast,
Into a purple cloud! Across the night
Which hides what is to be, it shoots a light
All rosy with the yet unrisen dawn.
Not the near daisies, but yon distant height
Attracts us, lying on this emerald lawn.
And always, be the landscape what it may --
Blue, misty hill or sweep of glimmering plain --
It is the eye's endeavor still to gain
The fine, faint limit of the bounding day.
God, haply, in this mystic mode, would fain
Hint of a happier home, far, far away!
poem by Henry Timrod
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What A Ride
Present life can be one big ride, but, in my life God is glorified,
As The Lord guides me through, times and places He foreknew,
Times He ordered in my life, in that I could lean on Jesus Christ,
While God leads me from above, all through this ride I speak of.
My ride has valleys and hills, but lacking an amusement’s thrills,
For although each hill was high, at times they’d bring just a sigh,
Although at times it brought relief, time on the hill was only brief,
With yet another valley in view, that time was short, this we knew.
For on this ride I wasn’t alone, the experience wasn’t just my own,
Along with me in this ride of life, was a God provided loving wife,
By my side in the good and bad, a comfort when times were sad,
Comforted, not only by His grace, but by my wife in all we’d face.
The Lord was with us at every turn, as we helped each other learn,
God’s ways in dark times, as He comforted our hearts and minds,
And when on a hill we’d plateau, in our ride we had come to know,
Hearing the joy within her voice, together in God we would rejoice.
The time together in which we spend, upon this ride will soon end,
For Eternity is ahead for both of us, together with our Lord Jesus,
As soon we’ll both leave this place, to a home afforded by Grace,
And before in my life I have died, I shall say to Christ, what a ride!
(Copyright ©01/2012)
The Cleanest Man....
he is clean
he prides about the beard
that he has
just shaven
he is clean
there is no hair left on his head
no hair between his thighs
and legs
he is clean
his chest is bare now
his heart slowly
beating
he is clean as he
is empty
like a room without
furniture and
drapes
he is clean and without
sin
he who has not done
anything
and can do not wrong again...
he is clean now
for he is dead....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When The Sun's Behind The Hill
There's a soft and peaceful feeling
Comes across the farming hand
As the shadows go a-stealing
Slow along the new-turned land.
The lazy curling smoke above the thatch is showing blue,
And the weary old plough horses wander homeward two 'n' two,
With their chains a'clinkin', clankin', when their daily toil is through,
And the sun's behind the hill.
Then it's slowly homeward plodding
As the night begins to creep,
And the barley grass is nodding
To the daisies, all asleep,
The crows are flying heavily, and cawing overhead;
The sleepy milking cows are lowing sof'ly in the shed,
And above them, in the rafters, all the fowls have gone to bed,
When the sun's behind the hill.
Then it's 'Harry, feed old Roaney!'
And it's 'Bill, put up the rail!'
And it's 'Tom, turn out the pony!'
'Mary, hurry with the pail!'
And the kiddies run to meet us, and are begging for a ride
On the broad old 'Prince' and 'Darkey' they can hardly sit astride;
And mother, she is bustling with the supper things inside,
When the sun's behind the hill.
Then it's sitting down and yarning
When we've had our bite and sup,
And the mother takes her darning,
And Bess tells how the baldy cow got tangled in the wire,
And Katie keeps the baby-boy from tumbling in the fire;
And the baccy smoke goes curling as I suck my soothing briar,
When the sun's behind the hill.
And we talk about the season,
And of how it's turning out,
And we try to guess the reason
For the long-continued drought,
Oh! a farmer's life ain't roses and his work is never done:
And a job's no sooner over than another is begun.
For he's toiling late and early from the rising of the sun
Till he sinks behind the hill.
But it grows, that peaceful feeling
While I'm sitting smoking there,
And the kiddies all are kneeling
To repeat their ev'ning prayer;
For it seems, somehow, to lighten all the care that must be bore
When the things of life are worrying, and times are troubling sore;
And I pray that God will keep them when my own long-day is o'er,
And the sun's behind the hill.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Up On The Hill
We come from a long line of lenders
Who get rich just exploiting you spenders
But now we just manage our blenders
Up, up, up on the hill
It helps to be charming and funny
Have cute names like binky and bunny
But the main things still oodles of money
Up, up, up on the hill
Up on the hill we are the big cheeses
Up on the hill we own the cool breezes
Top of the heap is where we know we belong
Up on the hill above the confusion
Up on the hill we live our illusions
Up, up, up on the hill
Marmalade mansions beneath cloudless skies
Breathtaking vistas that baffle your eyes
Were passing our days in a rare atmosphere
Sun, sea, and stars, and warm breezes all year
Our blood is decidedly blue-ish
Were leery of anything newish
And or course, darling, nobodys jewish
Up, up, up on the hill
Up on the hill we are the big cheeses
Up on the hill we own the cool breezes
The top of the heap is where we know we belong
Up on the hill above the confusion
Up on the hill we live our illusions
Up, up, up on the hill
Up, up, up on the hill
Way up, up, up on the hill
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nursery Rhyme for Iraq
Jack and Jill
Went up the hill
To watch
The Iraq slaughter.
Jack said 'Blair!
It isn't fair! '
(Silence.
And no laughter.)
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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