Makarora
Rocky peaks of Makarora in the summer wear their snow
And down the lush green grassy valley the clear mountain river flow
Songbirds piping in the beechwoods songthrush, bellbird and
redpoll
This a place of peace and beauty Makarora has a soul.
These great mountains look no different than to when the first man came
They have a wild rugged beauty for want of a better name
To the coming generations these high peaks will look the same
Man will not build houses on them man such wildness could not tame.
Summer's come to Makarora and along with her brought her green
Beauty to compare with any with the finest I have seen
This place would inspire an artist peaks in summer white
with snow
Beechwoods and through lush green valley sparkling mountain river flow.
Those high peaks of makarora will not change as years go by
Out there on those rugged mountains bones of Maori hunter lie
Still these mountains keep their secrets monarchs of the higher ground
Overlooking Makarora and the woodlands all around
Snow clad peaks of Makarora reaching upwards towards the sky
I am just a passing stranger and I'll be bidding you goodbye
But I will take with me the memories of beauty I have seen
today
Woodlands in a lush green valley by those mountains far away
poem by Francis Duggan
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Green New Zealand
I've seen great sights of beauty in my travels
The gold and grey landscapes, the brown and green
But south Pacific Islands of New Zealand
Are beautiful as anywhere I've seen.
I've seen the hills of Sherbrooke east of Melbourne
Where tall mountain ash reach upwards towards the sky
And cool rainforests of northern New South Wales and Queensland
Are memories I can recall and enjoy.
I've seen the high hills of Britain and Ireland
Of such green beauty famous bards have wrote
But I would write a song for green New Zealand
Had I been blessed with gift of rhyming poet.
I've seen the wild brown outback of Australia
It's rugged beauty man could never tame
A different sort of beauty to New Zealand
And no two sorts of beauty seem the same.
I've seen the Catskill mountains in their splendour
When flowers were blooming in the month of May
And birds sang in the leafy mountain woodlands
But that was years ago and far away.
The lush green hills and valleys of New Zealand
As beautiful as I have ever seen
And the Homeland of the kakapo and kiwi
Can compare with to anywhere I've been.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Those Green Fields Of Kilmeedy
Those green fields of Kilmeedy I do remember still
They meet the gorse and bracken at the foot of Clara hill
A place of peace and beauty with mountains all around
Scarce touched by man's pollution where Nature's joys abound.
Even in summer in Kilmeedy the dawn comes with a chill
But skylark he is piping above the bracken hill
Through Spring and through the Summer he sings all through the day
And I fancy I can hear him o'er mountains far away.
The robin he is piping on flowering hawthorn tree
Across the miles of distance his music comes to me
And dunnock on the hedgerow and dipper in the stream
And song thrush piping gaily on ash by old bohreen.
All through the Spring and Summer the wildering flowers are seen
But green fields of Kilmeedy not always quite so green
In November and December the winds of Winter blow
And January and February bring frost and sleet and snow.
In mid March in Kilmeedy the first wildflowers appear
And weather still quite chilly though days of bloom are near
But April brings her blossoms and leaves behind her green
And May comes o'er the mountain the summer beauty queen.
Those green fields of kilmeedy I see them every day
And I hear the skylark piping o'er hillsides far away
And dunnock on the hedgerow and the dipper in the stream
And those green fields of Kilmeedy have never looked so green.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Tis Spring
'Tis Spring in the northern woodlands the chaffinch sings at dawn of day
And the hawthorns are heavily laden in their beautiful white flowers of May
And the scenery it is breath-taking when viewed from the higher ground
The green fields and the lush green valleys for acres and for miles around,
In fancy I can hear the old stream it's liquid voice is never still
It babbles along by the hedgerows from it's home at the foot of the hill
'Tis Spring in the northern Countries and in the green fields far away
The birds sing in groves and in woodlands for to greet the dawning of the day,
The fields wear their beautiful wildflowers the hedgerows are leafy and green
And Nature wears her brightest colours her beauty for all to be seen,
The lark carols above the valley and higher and higher he fly
His pleasant notes cannot be mistaken he seems a small speck in the sky
The robin with the sun on his orange breast is singing on the silver birch tree
And miles of beautiful views from the higher ground as far as the eyes can see.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Durango Mountain Caballero
This song was first released on the rocky mountain holiday album. it is the only album it has been released on.
You know I love the trail Im on
And the friends who ride with me
The country that were passing through
Is a paradise to see
A haven for my spirit
The homeland of my dreams
My heart flies through the wilderness
And on an eagles wings
And oh I love the waterfall
And the way the river sings
From snowcapped peaks both proud and tall
Through forests deep and green
The highway of the mountains
The lifeblood of the land
I can hear my mother speak to me
And hold my fathers hand
Durango mountain caballero
Take me for a ride
On the backbone of this mighty land
The continental divide
To the place where earth and heaven meet
The mountains and the sky
In the heart of colorado
Rocky mountain high
And oh I love the campfire
And the circle that Im in
The stories and the laughter
They should never ever end
Forever in my memory
Forever in my song
On a san juan mountain trail ride
Ill carry you along
Words and music by john denver
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Early Works - Far Beyond
Far beyond I see a sky of blue,
still further beyond I see
mountain peaks covered in mist.
Just beyond the sky of blue
and mountain, peaks covered in mist
lies a sun setting peacefully.
As the sun sets
it colours the sky
lighting the mountains
like a roman candle
and far beyond these burning mountains
the sun rests its head peacefully
as the day come to a close.
Date unknown
poem by David Harris
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My Twighlight Time
'Cross the Green of yesteryear, tears~
Comes a gradual ripening of seed~
It cloisters itself, in the valleys deep~
Amongst the fertile sod, it feeds....
Encircled by a range of Mountains~
Frosted themselves, with past snow~
Left o'er icy topping's~
Shining now, in the Green May, We Know!
The snow has been there, a while~
Or at least, since November fourteen~
When the last, of premature snow fell~
Upon the Mountains and Valleys once Green!
November, now remembered, for its most icy womb~
While May, for the ice, melting itself away~
And an opening, to a Civilization Of Beauty~
As, the Seeds Of Goodness, They Bloom In Our Hearts Today!
poem by Theodora Onken
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The Hand of Beauty
Beauty is a sunset or a rise
On a breath Taking day
And like snow covered mountains
With peaks where the clouds lay
Beauty is a seasonal poppy
Stranded on a road side
Presenting its definition
Unknowingly glowing with pride
Beauty is a rainy day
When a day is clear and bright
Lining the sky with colours
And bowing within your sight
Beauty is many of things
Some remain untold
But one I yet not mentioned
Is the one of the hand I hold
For this beauty is different
This beauty is so divine
And I promise to travel a journey
With this beautiful wife of mine
©Copyright Anna Andrews 2010
poem by Anna Andrews
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A Sheet Of Shroud
A vast amphitheatre
Of snow extends beyond the sight,
Peaks behind peaks stretch
To the skyline, only unsullied
Whiteness is visible, as if
Bodies of mountains and hills,
Have swathed themselves,
Into a huge sheet of shroud.
Silences overflow in the region,
The birds and animals
Of the summer, have migrated
To the warmer side of the globe,
Before the chilly winds
Have wrapped the valley.
No song of a nightingale
Or a cuckoo is heard;
Except swish of the wind,
When it passes through
A narrow gorge or rumbles
Of the tumbling icebergs,
When they break and go
Tumbling down and crash
With muffled grumbles
In the bottom, or seldom
Bilateral tut-tut, tut-tut
Of machine guns,
Pointed at the rival troops
By the soldiers in icy trenches,
Or a shriek when someone
Is killed on either side.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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437
On A Trip Well Planned
When Most Of The Hours
Are Spent Inside The Car
Where You Dream
About What Lies There
On The Place Of Your Destination
Some Flowers
And Treks On Mountain Trails
And Bridges
And Rivers Where You Look Down Below
Cloud-Filled Skies
And Big Mountains With Enormous
Shadows And Cold Places
At Their Peaks
You Find Rest Somewhere
On A Rock Under A Big Pine Tree
High On This Plateau
Where You Can See
The Green Valley Below
You Think Of Home
Your Bed And Your Room
And The Poetry Books
And Some Love Poems
Of Friends That You
Miss Reading
You Realize You Are Getting Old
And Your Taste For The World Has Gone Cold
Inside Another Long Journey Is Waiting
And You Think It Is More Exciting
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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How Green
How green is your valley
How lush is your path to your garden of love
Is it overshadowed by the cross of persecution
How green is your memory
Is it poverty and ruin choked with weeds of despair
Is it blossoms of peace and pleasures
Beyond which there is none to compare
How green is your table
Is it filled with delights of wicked consumption
Is it dangled on meat from the hook in your lair
From that insidious malicious sinister dare
Money
How green
How green
How green
How green is your tomorrow
How green is your eternity
How green
Or is it black and white
poem by Gary Revel
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After A Long Travel
after a long travel
on a trip well planned
when most of the hours
are spent inside the car
where you dream
about what lies there
on the place of your destination
some flowers
and treks on mountain trails
and bridges
and rivers where you look down below
cloud-filled skies
and big mountains with enormous
shadows and cold places
at their peaks
you find rest somewhere
on a rock under a big pine tree
high on this plateau
where you can see
the green valley below
you think of home
your bed and your room
and the poetry books
and some love poems
of friends that you
miss reading
you realize you are getting old
and your taste for the world has gone cold
inside another long journey is waiting
and you think it is more exciting
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Beautiful Balmoral
Ye lovers of the picturesque, away and see
Beautiful Balmoral, near by the River Dee;
There ye will see the deer browsing on the heathery hills,
While adown their sides run clear sparkling rills.
Which the traveller can drink of when he feels dry,
And admire the dark River Dee near by,
Rolling smoothly and silently on its way,
Which is most lovely to see on a summer day.
There the trout do sport and play
During the live-long summer day;
Also plenty of salmon are there to be seen,
Glittering like silver in the sun's sheen.
And the mountains are rugged and wild to be seen,
But the woodlands are beautiful when Nature's face is green;
There numerous rabbits do gambol all day
Amongst the green scrubbery all lively and gay.
There's one charming spot most magnificent to be seen,
'Tis Balmoral Castle, the Highland Home of our Queen;
The surrounding scenery is enchanting to see,
While near by rolls past the lovely River Dee.
Therefore, ye lovers of the picturesque, away and see
Beautiful Balmoral Castle and its grand scenery,
And the sight will fill your hearts with glee,
As ye walk along the bonnie banks o' the River Dee.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Weather-esque
Wind gusted and
Snow fell.
Flakes blew about this way and that,
Creating a semi-transparent veil of
Frozen precipitation.
Legs trudged through hip-high drifts
While hardened snow crunched underfoot.
Mitten-covered hands clench a hardwood staff
That digs through the layers of snow and
Impales the half-frozen ice underneath.
The wind blows north to south,
Straight into my face.
Two t-shirts, three long sleeves,
A sweater, a jacket, a hooded sweatshirt,
A big puffy coat lined with fur,
A hat and earmuffs,
Two layers of mittens and four layers of socks
With fur-lined, water-proof boots,
Along with two scarves,
And still the wind feels like
Knives are stabbing into my bare skin,
As if my very soul were bared to the tempest.
It howls down from the north into the valley,
Roaring past my ears,
Moving so hard and so fast it’s as if
It’s fleeing from some terrible beast.
The snow flashes brilliantly in the
Dim sunlight,
Blinding me no matter where I look,
Even when my face is down to protect it from the wind.
Layer upon layer gather atop the already
Icy ground—wet snow and fluffy snow,
Icy snow and more wet snow and some more
Fluffy snow again.
Trying to walk through it is like
Trekking through some viscous liquid,
Caramel, perhaps,
Especially going uphill.
Mountains hem in the valley
Like monstrous stone colossi
Gazing over some long-forgotten land.
Their peaks are lost within the white
Storm. What can be seen of the mountains
Are just flinty bases encased in layers of snow.
I finally reach the crest of the hill.
Below me is spread a vast expanse of white.
No details can be made out except for the
Never-ending range of mountains and snow.
Well, here it goes, I think and
Begin to make my descent.
Heath from the Highlands
Here, where the great hills fall away
To bays of silver sea,
I hold within my hand to-day
A wild thing, strange to me.
Behind me is the deep green dell
Where lives familiar light;
The leaves and flowers I know so well
Are gleaming in my sight.
And yonder is the mountain glen,
Where sings in trees unstirred
By breath of breeze or axe of men
The shining satin-bird.
The old weird cry of plover comes
Across the marshy ways,
And here the hermit hornet hums,
And here the wild bee strays.
No novel life or light I see,
On hill, in dale beneath:
All things around are known to me
Except this bit of heath.
This touching growth hath made me dream -
It sends my soul afar
To where the Scottish mountains gleam
Against the Northern star.
It droops - this plant - like one who grieves;
But, while my fancy glows,
There is that glory on its leaves
Which never robed the rose.
For near its wind-blown native spot
Were born, by crags uphurled,
The ringing songs of Walter Scott
That shook the whole wide world.
There haply by the sounding streams,
And where the fountains break,
He saw the darling of his dreams,
The Lady of the Lake.
And on the peaks where never leaf
Of lowland beauty grew,
Perhaps he met Clan Alpine's chief,
The rugged Roderick Dhu.
Not far, perchance, this heather throve
(Above fair banks of ferns),
From that green place of stream and grove
That knew the voice of Burns.
Against the radiant river ways
Still waves the noble wood,
Where in the old majestic days
The Scottish poet stood.
Perhaps my heather used to beam
In robes of morning frost,
By dells which saw that lovely dream -
The Mary that he lost.
I hope, indeed, the singer knew
The little spot of land
On which the mountain beauty grew
That withers in my hand.
A Highland sky my vision fills;
I feel the great, strong North -
The hard grey weather of the hills
That brings men-children forth.
The peaks of Scotland, where the din
And flame of thunders go,
Seem near me, with the masculine,
Hale sons of wind and snow.
So potent is this heather here,
That under skies of blue,
I seem to breathe the atmosphere
That William Wallace knew.
And under windy mountain wall,
Where breaks the torrent loose,
I fancy I can hear the call
Of grand old Robert Bruce.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Then There Are The Mountains
On a mountain's peak is there peace?
Mountains that overlook the quiet prairie.
Mountains that borders life in rural counties.
Mountains chiseled by years of wind and rain.
Mountain winds creep keeping all secrets.
Mountains a kin to the lower hills of death.
Mountains at the height of glamour baked in sunshine.
Mountains that reach for more majestic planes.
Mountains giving to the ridges, valleys and cliffs.
Mountains in spring the fulfillment of adventure and dream.
Mountains which can shelter one from storm.
Mountains an enduring symbol in poetry.
Mountains which inhabit the calls of the wild.
Mountains of spectacle, below the bending roads between.
Mountains embracing, magnifying the sounds of river.
Mountains the stellar monuments of time.
poem by William Blackman
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Sestina: Here in Katmandu
We have climbed the mountain.
There's nothing more to do.
It is terrible to come down
To the valley
Where, amidst many flowers,
One thinks of snow,
As formerly, amidst snow,
Climbing the mountain,
One thought of flowers,
Tremulous, ruddy with dew,
In the valley.
One caught their scent coming down.
It is difficult to adjust, once down,
To the absense of snow.
Clear days, from the valley,
One looks up at the mountain.
What else is there to do?
Prayer wheels, flowers!
Let the flowers
Fade, the prayer wheels run down.
What have they to do
With us who have stood atop the snow
Atop the mountain,
Flags seen from the valley?
It might be possible to live in the valley,
To bury oneself among flowers,
If one could forget the mountain,
How, never once looking down,
Stiff, blinded with snow,
One knew what to do.
Meanwhile it is not easy here in Katmandu,
Especially when to the valley
That wind which means snow
Elsewhere, but here means flowers,
Comes down,
As soon it must, from the mountain.
poem by Donald Justice
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The Moon Flower
I know a valley- through its solitude
A brown road winds towards a mountain crest;
There gnarly ti-trees dripping sweetness rest,
And grasses bend, too heavily bedowed.
In that still valley by the still lagoon,
A ruined homestead for her secret shrine,
Dwells Beauty's self, half-earthly, half-devine-
Thrilling, I saw her waken to the moon.
In peaks of emerald the cactus crept,
And there o'er rafters falling to decay,
A miracle of flowers, spray on spray,
Burst into perfect life while nature slept.
First a slim silver riband from the sky
Uncurled green fronds from each imprisoned bud,
Then, one by one, bathed in the beaming flood,
Like ghost-notes in a spirit litany.
They blossomed out before my eyes,
Great chalices of snow filled up with light;
Set in the mystic radiance of night
They seemed a vision from immortal skies.
Hidden in shadow near the still lagoon
Nightly I worship at a secret shrine,
There on a ruin- lily-white, devine,
Is beauty lying naked to the moon!
poem by Lala Fisher
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The witch of Hex River
According to legend
a beautiful girl
Eliza Meiring stayed
on the farm Buffelskraal
at the foot
of the mountains
and so many suitors
were interested in her
that she would only
be the girlfriend of the man
that brought her a red disa flower.
These ground orchids
only grow on the highest peaks
and it was extremely difficult
to get the flower.
The few guys that tried
quickly got discouraged
but Frans whom she really loved
climbed up Groothoek ravine
against a wet moss covered cliff
and there fell to his death.
Eliza was deranged
when she heard the news
and was kept by her parents
in the loft of their house
where she notched Eliza Meiring 1868
onto the wooden windowsill
and one night
she got the top window open,
went down to the ground,
wearing her long white night gown
and climbed the foot hills
and sat down crying on a rock
which suddenly crumbled beneath her
and she also fell to her death.
It is said
that when the first winter snow
falls on that mountains
and the moon rises
glittering on them
her spirit dwells
on the mountain peaks
and that she still mourns
the death of her lover.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Skylark Sing Above The Mountain
The skylark sing above the mountain brow
And robin piping on the leafy bough
And lush green meads scent of the blooms of May
And it's Spring in a green Land far away.
I feel homesick at this time every year
I close my eyes the dunnock's voice i hear
In leafy grove the chaffinch chirp and sing
It would be nice to be home for the Spring.
It would be nice to go back home right now
When there is so much beauty to be seen
The birds are singing, wildflowers everywhere
And woods and valleys wear their richest green.
The currawongs are down from higher hills
I hear them calling on the tall gum trees
And morning air has breath of Winter chill
Whilst it's Spring in Ireland far beyond the seas.
If i had enough money i would go back home
If only for a month or even two
Enjoy the Spring, enjoy the peace and quiet
And do the things that i most like to do.
The skylark sing above the mountain brow
And robin piping on the leafy bough
And lush green meads scent of the blooms of May
And it's Spring in a green Land far away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Pity Me, Loo!
On the sunset borders of the mountains I stray,
Of a dear home dreaming 'yond the snow peaks far away,
While the bubbling brook beside me goes dancing along,
As it seeks the "Golden Gate" of the ocean blue;
And a lone bird murmurs in the bush-top his song--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"
Tra la la la, la la la la
From mate to mate the carol rings:
Tra la la la, la la la la!
la la la la
A thousand valleys through;
Yet the lone bird sorrows as he plaintively sings--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"
'Neath the rocks I'm treading there are treasures of gold,
But by far more precious is my own native mold.
Nevermore, in search of Beauty need Fancy take wings:
Here is beauty, here is grandeur, at ev'ry view;
Yet my heart grows heavy, and the lone bird still sings--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"
In the green-clad valley where the wayward brook mends
There are homes most charming--there are warmhearted friends.
Lovely dell! it seems an Eden, afloat in mid-air,
As if God had sent from Heaven a creation new;
But its charm is broken, for my heart is not there--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"
poem by Henry Clay Work
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