Hill top
On the hill top of camomile and dandelion flower colours.
I hear a song with rabbit hears, coming from a church near.
Adoring the grass, adorning the air,
Exploring the maze of spice edge.
Thirsted by the long walk over the hill top
I am drunk of dew on Sunday bloom.
I rest on shade of snake bunch shape,
and sunshine day.
Where the cloud accompanies the constant sing of bird.
And lady bird claiming on a greenish mould brick wall.
Dressed by nature of black spot, red body and white look.
Of Sparrow bath in the green grass, with toys of worms & muddle soap.
I m seat on the higher hill, watching, mouldy tree shape,
And kids from far house playing with their bucket and spade.
Digging the sun out, into the smile on their happy face.
While the mother watering the flowers of her youth love.
Happy day, peacefully made of fresh air, whispering.
On my body, cover in clay smell,
Like the sand in my hands from the soil, full of space,
Infinite moments
Concealing my sorrow.
poem by Luca Menin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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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In some fields of grass under the hills (sestina)
This afternoon the peaks throw a big shade
with the black cliffs shining up on the hills,
while we lay together in the long grass,
I look in your eyes that are amber-green
while under my head there is a small stone
and you smile at me like the prettiest lady.
I had once known another charming lady;
that part of my life is now left in shade,
bad churchmen were casting stone upon stone,
while I had to flee from them to the hills
to pastures were everything is green
to find the Lord in divine fields of grass.
Under your head there is a crown of grass
and your mother is a gracious, kind lady,
around us everything is lovely green
while we are still resting in the cool shade,
we are softly chatting about life’s hills,
about walls of very hard granite stone.
Your eyes are much brighter than emerald stone
while all of your words are softer than grass,
reaching higher and beyond all the hills,
the high mountain which is dangerous lady,
while from our pain nothing gives any shade,
nowhere is a place of rest that is green.
Your summer dress is lovely, is bright green,
suddenly all our ails have turned to stone
I follow you further; see your small shade,
I am seen as one that woos any lady,
we walk past some flowers growing in grass,
climbing up higher into the foothills.
Bright streams are splashing down some of the hills,
with water transparent, sometimes cold and green,
love and lust burns like in a youthful lady
while I at that moment feel cold as stone,
we notice a deer feeding on lone grass
while our garments lie under a tree’s shade.
Far into the hills you want love till dusk’s shade,
where you peep like some green moss from the grass,
are tossing me with a stone like no lady.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If I had [De-aş avea]
If I had a pretty flower
Fresh and sweet and full of power
Like all those that bloom in May,
Charming daughters of the day,
Growing on a grassy field
Where the grass is moved by wind,
And where people hear above
Gentle whispers full of love;
If I had a little flower
Nice and younger than the hour,
Dressed like lilies at their best
And white like the snowy breast,
Sometimes with a shade of pink,
Sometimes purple like a drink,
Like a song one hears above
Soft like whispers full of love;
If I had a dove as white
As a girl's face shining bright,
A meek girl, a lovely thing,
Like a sunny day of spring,
I would sing her all day long
The traditional folk song
And the notes will rise above
Soft like whispers full of love.
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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The Last Lovely Rose Of The Fall
Her pink petals lay on the short grass beside the red brick garden wall
By the thorny mother that bore her the last lovely rose of the Fall
White butterflies flit in the garden in the warm sunshine of mid day
And the shrike thrush he pipes on a low branch in his cloak of light brown to gray,
The rose tree has lost her last and her finest daughter next year new roses she will bear
And the rose tree in her flowers does look lovely than her there is none quite so fair
And her flowers they must return to Nature and on Nature's bosom decay
And the rose tree herself sooner or later must return to Nature one day,
The dark willy wagtail he sits on the brick wall his long black tail he wags to and fro
For him 'tis a very good Season on butterlies fat he does grow
Each life form serves a purpose in Nature for one to live one has to die
And what comes from Nature goes back to Nature and the same goes for you and for i
The pink rose petals lay on the grass by their mother on this warm March day in the Fall
And of all of the flowers in the garden in bloom she was the fairest of all.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Paco De Lucia In Guitar Strings
the guitar strings of paco de lucia
are not new to me
the sound of his spanish guitar
strumming on my mind
they were with me
in my childhood
with my friends
we get a smooth
long and strong
coconut palm
take it on top
of a hill
covered with green
carabao grass
and we ride
on the palm
slide it
on the hill
and
yehey
yehehey
yehey yehey
we laugh
so hard
my little
brown friends
that
the foreign
white visitors
call monkeys
we take
the coconut palm
on top of the hill
we ride on it
and we slide
on the
hill
green
with
carabao grass
grass
yehey
yehehey
yehey
we tumble
and roll
when we
reach the
foot of the hill
covered with
green
carabao
grass
we
crash
there may
be some bruises
on our arms
and
legs
but we
laugh
we enjoy
the sliding
the falling
the crashing
on the green
green
carabao
grass
we
crash
yehey
yehehey
yehehey
we are
the happy
little brown
monkeys
yehey
yehehey
yehey
we are
happy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To The Cuckoo
O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! Shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of Sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!
poem by William Wordsworth
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Snow Flakes are dancing
Snow flakes are dancing, dancing in the air
By the lake. by the pier, far and near
Mother Earth has a white veil, draped on the ground
White fluffy snow falling gently. no sound
Sun took the day off, napping behind the cloud
Lonely dog barking, yonder, so loud
Dawn is hiding, does not know what to do
Blue sky tucked away can not peep through
Snow flakes all shapes, sailing, dancing all around
I see the foot prints of a lonely cat on the ground
A love bird flew over with a love cry
Looking for his mate? I don't know why
Kids are playing, riding on their sled
Up the hill, down the hill, on and on, not afraid
Parents are watching but having fun too
Little kids so cute, jumping on the snow like kangaroo
Sitting by the window and wonder, looking at the snow flake dancing
Mother Earth's miracle, I feel happy, feel like romancing.
poem by Syed Karim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cosmos
So much rain fell
that the grass
was like a swamp
and next to the road
suddenly wildflowers bloomed
in colours of white, pink
and crimson-brown.
On long green stems
they grew together
the petals almost
in the shape
of a fortget-me-not
but much more spread
at the front edge.
Some kids might take them
to play the I love you game,
but do so in vain.
The smell of cosmos
hangs soft in the air
and there were patches
of colour everywhere.
I picked some with regret
to see the petals fold over
to hide their heads
of yellow and black specks.
Far to brittle to the touch,
still their beauty was too much
and I thought God,
You made nature really great.
poem by Gert Strydom
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What I Am To You
who are you?
i am not the sun
i do not have light
my hands are not
rays
do not worship me
do not look down
look at me straight in
my eyes
i cannot blind
you
i am a river
come, come to me
plunge in me
flow with me
in my own sorrow
do not stand there
and raise your hands
trying to reach me
i am not a cloud
i am a tree so
come, come, come to me
climb in my branches
pick my fruits
have some to eat
i am the kindness of the hill
the shade of the tired
traveler
do not create a distance
i am the grass
sit upon me
lay your body
i am soft and i am cool
make yourself comfortable.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Nicest Season For One To Die
The nicest Season for one to die must surely be the Spring
When the Parklands wear their Wildflowers and song birds pipe and sing
And young birds are chirping in their nests and the sparrows all the day
Are busy under the house eaves weaving their nests of hay.
If I'm not burned to ashes then why not bury me
In that old graveyard on the hill preferably by a tree
Where in Spring birds will build their nest and sing their songs above where I lay
Though what happens to your remains when you are dead doesn't matter some do say.
We all belong to Mother Nature and to her we must return sometime
The reaper takes the young and old and those in their life's
prime
And since I too must die I hope 'twill be when flowers are in full bloom
In the prime of Spring when the air scent sweetly of Nature's own perfume.
Bury me in the Graveyard on the hill where peace is to be found
Beside a tree where birds nest and sing content in their home ground
A quiet place free of man made noise when Spring is in the air
In Nature's bosom I will rest beyond any living care.
poem by Francis Duggan
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My Playmate
The pines were dark on Ramoth hill,
Their song was soft and low;
The blossoms in the sweet May wind
Were falling like the snow.
The blossoms drifted at our feet,
The orchard birds sang clear;
The sweetest and the saddest day
It seemed of all the year.
For, more to me than birds or flowers,
My playmate left her home,
And took with her the laughing spring,
The music and the bloom.
She kissed the lips of kith and kin,
She laid her hand in mine
What more could ask the bashful boy
Who fed her father's kine?
She left us in the bloom of May
The constant years told o'er
Their seasons with as sweet May morns,
But she came back no more.
I walk, with noiseless feet, the round
Of uneventful years;
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring
And reap the autumn ears.
She lives where all the golden year
Her summer roses blow;
The dusky children of the sun
Before her come and go.
There haply with her jewelled hands
She smooths her silken gown,-
No more the homespun lap wherein
I shook the walnuts down.
The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
The brown nuts on the hill,
And still the May-day flowers make sweet
The woods of Follymill.
The lilies blossom in the pond,
The bird builds in the tree,
The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill
The slow song of the sea.
I wonder if she thinks of them,
And how the old time seems,-
If ever the pines of Ramoth wood
Are sounding in her dreams.
I see her face, I hear her voice;
Does she remember mine?
And what to her is now the boy
Who fed her father's kine?
What cares she that the orioles build
For other eyes than ours,-
That other hands with nuts are filled,
And other laps with flowers?
O playmate in the golden time!
Our mossy seat is green,
Its fringing violets blossom yet,
The old trees o'er it lean.
The winds so sweet with birch and fern
A sweeter memory blow;
And there in spring the veeries sing
The song of long ago.
And still the pines of Ramoth wood
Are moaning like the sea,-
The moaning of the sea of change
Between myself and thee!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Every Flower Ain't got to be a Rose
Every flower ain’t got be a rose.
Every bird ain’t got to be a sparrow.
Every body of water ain’t got to be a ocean.
Every hill ain’t got be a mountain.
Every American ain’t got to be white.
For we are all created by one God.
And we are all part of His master plan.
That is why every flower ain’t got to be
a rose.
Spring.
'Let the light rain on her, the sweet Spring, till
She teems with greenery in the warm air,
Flower-hued, and vocal with the tender joy
Of bleating lambs and young birds on the wing.'
Thus on the cold hill doth the herdsman pray
Beneath his frozen star; the milkmaid, too,
As her raw hands take up the milking-pail,
And the wind freezes in the red dawn near: —
'Come, Spring, earth's sap, and mount in me until
I bloom, a rose of love: smile in mine eyes
Till my love from his wintry hill shall see
The star of youth, and leap into my arms!
O Spring, sweet Spring! but hear my prayer, and I
Shall build thee bowers of roses on the hill,
And all the summer there with bird and bee
Shall joy feast in the beauty of our love!'
Thus do they chant the wintry time away
In hill and vale, the two who look to when
The warmth of beauty takes life's wonder on,
And the rose of the flesh shall bloom for them.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Pollen Call Is Rainbow Pot Of Gold To El Dorado
walk within fields walk within woods
walk upon prairie grass or wild tundra
all is listening nature all nature listens
observe quiet hare sure big ears hears
but the bumblebee does not have ears
how then is it a fuzzy bumblebee hears
it is not known whether a bumblebee hears
it is not known how fuzzy bumblebee hears
a bumblebee could hear sound waves passing
sound waves soft passing through freedom air
a bumblebee can feel the vibrations of sounds
vibrations of sounds through wood materials
a bumblebee could hear sound through legs
a bumblebee could hear sound through fuzz
fuzzy body to kept warm to keep out winds
to keep out wind chill so as not to catch chills
a bumblebee watches golden pollen showers
a bumblebee dances among flowers for hours
pollen call is rainbow pot of gold to El Dorado
vessels of golden one flower air in fertilization
flights seed flowers in colours shapes miraculous
heavens ablaze seed colour shape smell lure scent
heaven kiss nectar pollen rewards await joy flight
flights of impossibility sow wild flower seed scent
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Before you bloom
I wonder if I'll see you in the future
will we cross paths
and commuinate face to face
not over a computer?
I know we grew apart
but perhaps
when we've finished growing we can make a new start
If I have money ill open up a bar
so we can have that lunch
hey
we can go for a drive to the coutry side in my car
we can go for a boat ride
we can sit on the hill top in platfields park
getting drunk in the sun until it becomes dark
we can leave the car
and we can get a taxi.
Your asleep on my shoulder
Im looking out of the window wishing upon a star
I awake you when we arrive
and when you get out Im left with the smell of your perfume
the driver smiles
and I tell him
I didnt go with you
because I know you havnt got the room
because youve got a husband and two kids
we are two friends
you are the love I was once with
we were two kids.
The driver takes me back to where I used to live
Im a stranger in a home thats a sweat home
the neighbours are new and Im stood all alone
in the dark looking,
staring at my house
I dont wanna knock I tell myself they're out
I stand staring
still
the lights are on but I know
it means theres nobody home
and I
I'm ready to go when the blinds move to the side
a ten year old boy looks at me and waves good bye
he smiles
he looks happy
he doesnt look sad
yet Im looking at a house where theres no mum
theres no dad.
Going to the park to get my car
I ring you
I remember what you said
I let you go.
I knew you had to put the kids to bed.
I'm Sitting on the hill
I'm whishing I was looking into your eyes
instead
Im alone
watching a lonley sunrise
boy and girl they are on a boat ride
and I can still smell your perfume
us kids
we're like flowers
we bloom
We do
I just whish I'd have bloomed with you.
poem by Daniel McCann
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The Sweetness of Life
It fell on a day I was happy,
And the winds, the concave sky,
The flowers and the beasts in the meadow
Seemed happy even as I;
And I stretched my hands to the meadow,
To the bird, the beast, the tree:
'Why are ye all so happy?'
I cried, and they answered me.
What sayest thou, Oh meadow,
That stretchest so wide, so far,
That none can say how many
Thy misty marguerites are?
And what say ye, red roses,
That o'er the sun-blanched wall
From your high black-shadowed trellis
Like flame or blood-drops fall?
'We are born, we are reared, and we linger
A various space and die;
We dream, and are bright and happy,
But we cannot answer why.'
What sayest thou, Oh shadow,
That from the dreaming hill
All down the broadening valley
Liest so sharp and still?
And thou, Oh murmuring brooklet,
Whereby in the noonday gleam
The loosestrife burns like ruby,
And the branched asters dream?
'We are born, we are reared, and we linger
A various space and die;
We dream and are very happy,
But we cannot answer why.'
And then of myself I questioned,
That like a ghost the while
Stood from me and calmly answered,
With slow and curious smile:
'Thou art born as the flowers, and wilt linger
Thine own short space and die;
Thou dream'st and art strangely happy,
But thou canst not answer why.'
poem by Archibald Lampman
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The Bird
(9/15/12)
I saw a bird perched on a tree
I looked at him and he looked at me.
The strangest bird that I ever did see
He had a tail about four inches long
With that body it did not belong.
He had a body smaller than a sparrow
With a beak long and narrow.
He made a sound that I never heard
Not like one you'd hear from a bird.
It was not like the sounds of a love bird
Canary, or cockatoo, but a soft whistle
Which filled the air, and with all
Living things it wanted to share.
It was like a hypnotic sound
And turned my head completely around.
His soft whistling cry was like
A call to the wild
Brought flocks of birds
Of every color and style.
Landing on every branch of the tree
And left no empty space that I could see.
This was the most beautiful sight that
I had ever saw, and I knew
I will see it no more.
© L. RAMS
poem by Louis Rams
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Lighter birds can Soar high, Heavier can only Run on Legs!
Life itself is that eternal bird,
building the nest of clay,
When safety becomes its priority,
Closes windows and doors,
Only to feel itself in darkness,
depriving itself of fresh air!
Smaller and narrow will be its nest,
Where in, It can sing in darkness,
The song of its pain heard by no one!
Learning leads to plan its home,
With wider doors and windows,
Open to light and fresh air,
Its happy song liked by all,
Little heart full of love,
Wider than world as world feels,
Still the bird want more light,
Leaving the nest,
flying long and wide,
Wide will be its vission,
Wide will be space its eyes can see,
Great view of world makes it happy,
Only happy bird can sing melody,
The eternal tune of wisdom,
evergreen song that every life wants to sing!
Deep into space it can see,
Vision beyond galaxies,
nay, vission beyond narrow boundaries of human heart,
The bird's eye surely full of visions,
Free of views and thoughts,
heart has only one religion,
'soar as high as possible,
Less weight of sorrows,
less light of opinions,
Higher it can soar, ,
With lighter and efficient heart,
lighter, yet efficient
Heart,
Embedded in Lighter skeleton,
Less weight of head,
Strong heart make the flight easy,
Heavier the skeleton,
Inefficient heart,
Can only make the bird flightless,
It can only run on legs away from truth,
Never can fly, how can it soar high?
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Spring is coming
Amazing maze, shout on the sun, melt my eyes of child blur view.
Sprout blossom of ivy claiming springs' walls
Of underwater colours, touch the ground.
Tree holding, little hands of flowers.
Rust land on tail stone edge, murmuring in the wind
Refresh my month, in April sun.
Ceramic vase of violet lavender perfume the fences.
Festival of nectar, around the street rejoice in the sky.
Juicy colours, drunk by the pine top.
Green is the colour, predominant on my face.
I Prise the peace, and the silence resting on the sparrow's nest.
While spiders sow their webs.
poem by Luca Menin
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The Adopted Child
'Why wouldst thou leave me, oh! gentle child?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,
A straw-roof'd cabin, with lowly wall“
Mine is a fair and a pillar'd hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams.'
'Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play,
Thro' the long bright hours of the summer-day;
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme,
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know“
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go.'
'Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell,
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,
Harps which the wandering breezes tune;
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird,
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard.'
'Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall,
A song of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree,
To the babe half slumb'ring on her knee;
I dreamt last night of that music low“
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go.'
'Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest,
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou would'st meet her footstep, my boy, no more,
Nor hear her song at the cabin door.
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.'
'Is my mother gone from her home away?“
But I know that my brothers are there at play.
I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell,
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well;
Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow,“
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go.'
'Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now,
They sport no more on the mountain's brow,
They have left the fern by the spring's green side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried.
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot.'
'Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?“
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still;
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free,
And the heath is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow,“
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go.'
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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