I went up to the hill
that Jack and Jill
once tumbled down
quickly becoming the talk of the town
a terrible reminder of youth
the scene from this hill
one fall down this grassy *****
and your life
becomes the tale of legends
of stories
of perverted wonderings
one tumble down this metaphorical hill
and you leave the land of butterflies and fairy wings
and hit your childhood crown
on the rock of adulthood

Ancient trees of majesty
   why reach your arms in excellency?
Why skim the clouds and pierce the stars,
    to stand so bold as warrior Mars?
Why be a thing of children's play,
     and watch the scene where lovers lay?
  Why touch the hearts of young and old?
      Why change your leaves from green to gold?
   Why dip your arms in pools below
       and float your leaves as falling snow?
    Why whistle tunes on winds of high
         why whistle tunes as winds go by?

     I waited from dawn to dusk you see
     for these ancient trees soon whispered to me

      We grasp the day
      We grasp the night
      We grasp the fowl on earnest flight

       You give us  breath which we repay
            we mold your health in loving way
        We climb these hills and mountaintops
             and spread our green as greenery crops
          We house these creatures in wooden shacks
              and feel the cut of the woodmen's axe
          We watch the peace and wars go by
               and suffer pestilence without a cry
            We dance and sway on winds of old
                to tell our stories far untold..

This is a lyrical poem which can be accommodated by
       Enya's "The memory of trees"
Author of poem is--RW Dennen of Hello Poetry
Thank you kindly

A teardrop
Like a shimmering stream
Rolls down the moving hill
Leaving a river trail
On the flesh colored soil

Slowly it leaves its white rimmed pond
As it travels on
It's sorrowful journey
Across the hills
To the ruby petals
Which open to free a wind
Of lugubriousness
As they call for more drops

The glistening stream
Crosses the petals
Leaving a salty trail behind
As it falls to the rounded edge
Where it falls with a splash
To the floor below
Waiting patiently
For its followers to fall
From the land above
On their teardrop journeys

He owns the solar panels on a thousand hills
He knows all the satellites by name
He knows when every laptop crashes
He has cheats codes for every video game.

IF I could have stopped you.
I would have jumped in my car, raced to Hohenwald,  and slung gravel as I sped down your driveway, braked fiercely to stop inches from that guest house,  and fly out  from the inside of my car,  screaming, "Don't do it!  I'm here,   Uncle Brandon!  I love you! We all love you! "
I would have ran up the cedar steps, kicked the door in with my foot,  and yelled as loud as I could until you answered me.
No matter how many times I yell at your headstone, you never answer me.
You were a cowboy, traveling all over the country,  and seeing sights that many would never witness in their lifetime.
You had broken every bone in your body twice
you had a sense of humor
intelligent (two degrees), both in English and Teaching.
You had dreams of being a lawyer and
a college professor.
Only you were a cowboy first.
You loved to ride,  and you loved with a heart bigger than Montana sky.
I wish you had not left.
I miss seeing your dark brown matted hair, peeking from beneath your torn,  curved cowboy hat as you tipped it at me, with a wink,  adding, "See you when the wind changes"
You were a poet.
I think of you when I write,  and part of me still blames myself for not telling anyone about seeing you at my work that night.  You looked awful and I knew something was wrong,  but I didn't say anything--I have no clue why.  
You loved life,  why did you leave?
You had love,  why did you look?
We were your family,  why did you leave?  
I shouldn't be typing this
You are dead.
The world lost a true cowboy.
A man that lived by the sweat of his brow,  and the dirt on his clothes.
I would have stopped you.  I would have grabbed that gun,  and hugged you for the longest time,  and then I would have saddled up your horse and one for me.
Then the four of us would trot along to the highest hill we could find,  and I would watch the sun move across the sky, and tell you that every sunset of every day is always different, so you don't need to miss a single one.

Uncle Brandons last poem
   Im riding. Riding this way is like playing a finely tuned instrument, at times delicate, at other times powerful... The true artist can play with equal dexterity a soft ballad or a crashing march.

The Man: It is I, your hero, your hero made of steel. Ready to protect you from those ready to **** and steal...

The Woman: Who is my hero? Who is my king? Who is the one who rebukes those relentless fiends?

The Man: It is I, your faith, your faithful loving love, the Awesome God Almighty, as faithful as a dove.

The Woman: You live far away in Heaven, and I’m a country-side girl. Why do You call my name when I’m as robust as a man?

The Man: I gave you your yellow hair, the shadow of the radiant sun. I gave you your freckles, the night stars scattered on your precious face.

The Woman: I raise hens all day long, I rear pigs all day long, yet You seek me my hero, and watch me as intensely as a hawk.

The Man: I am here for you, and you exist for Me. How then can I neglect you when your heartbeats call unto Me?
I formed the mountains, and I shaped the valleys, but you I created in My likeness and for My honour.

The Woman: Surely I have nothing to offer You, a lone country girl. You own all of Heaven, where the gold’s as clear as glass.

The Man: The gold may be pure, the waters may be clear, but I could never surrender My life for them as I did for you that yesteryear.

The Woman: Don’t flutter me with words, my new found King of Steel. I have nothing to offer You as You fill my heart with joy.

The Man: You do hold something, something I deem as of great worth. It is your heart My young princess, My daughter and My love.

The Woman: You’re the Rider on the White Horse, but I’m a poor farmer on a dull mule,


*(The document ends here as it has disintegrated too far to be able to make retrieve more of the work.
It is kept in an unspecified museum.)

My father once told me my lungs were filled with the western winds,
swept from the plains of South Dakota
and when I spoke, I spoke in shades of the sky;
innocent and naive baby blues to raging, violent greys.

My heart beat to the sound of the hand drum, with a fire in my belly that could not be put out. I yearn for my feet to soak into the soil of the Black Hills, to run the hidden pine trails, seeking wisdom from the ancestors that rest among them.

My mind is as wandering as the Black Foot river and I cannot be stopped.