Chip Hill Poetry

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The Poetry of Chip Hill

SATURDAY MORNING

In a corner of the garden, where only one flower grows

There a little boy found a nest inside a coiled-up water hose

One egg it had, he sure was glad

For he knew something that nobody else knows.

And then the little boy, he took the egg away,

He took it to his Mommy, and then the little boy say,

“Mommy, Mommy dear, look what I have here,

This is gonna be a pretty little bird some day.”

“Go and take it to the nest, my darling little Jim,

The mother bird will want it back,” that’s what his Mommy told him,

“Hold it in your hand, my little man,”

And away he went for the nest by the flower’s stem.

He wasn’t very careful and the little boy fell down,

Then he looked up to see the yellow, all runnin’ round,

Broken on the lawn, the nice egg was gone,

And the great big tears were falling to the ground.

“Oh Mommy dear come look and see what I have done,

The pretty white shell is broken, the egg dryin’ in the sun,

I feel so bad, and the mother bird will be sad,

I’ve gone and taken her only one.”

In a corner of a garden, where only one flower stands,

There’s a dusty nest and a note, written by a little hand,

“Your egg is cracked, and my tears couldn’t bring it back…

But Mommy said that maybe you would understand.”

WRECKING CREW LIMERICK

(2010 Aggie football)

There once was a Wrecking Crew D

Made their foes in their pants take a pee

On the gridiron of Kyle

They’d attack with a smile

And the Aggies would have one more V.

Ol’ RC and Bob got it going

And soon the excitement was growing

The blitzing and hitting

Pursuit without quitting

Had offenses scared and yo-yoing

But as in fair Camelot of old

The embers of passion grew cold

The conference it changed

The staff rearranged

The Ag D began to get rolled

The Austin Pied Piper was grinning

And guru Mel Kuiper was spinning

No Game Day in sight

The twelfth man in flight

You’re relevant only if winning

The times are a changing they said

You can’t stop an offense that’s spread

Your stars are too few

Can’t spell Wrecking Crew

Let’s face it, your program is dead

But somewhere up North in Big D

T’was one asking how can this be?

Technique and desire

Are all I’d require

To get those Ags playing like me

We sighed oh if only they could!

When this guy played he really was good!

DeRuyter and Sherm

Were soon to confirm

The offer, and he said he would!

Then to Kyle came the new Leachless tards

Who saw some revenge in the cards

But the red raider sorts

Got it shoved up their shorts

And the Crew’s rep began to enlarge

The Ags dreamed the drought would now end

With the thought of the defense he’d mend

A new day we see

On this we’ll agree

We think Dat’s a guy who will Nguyen

ELECTRONIC EFFECTS

(Ode to the old Defense Nuclear Agency)

By Chip Hill

Hard below the beltway gloomy, near the place called Washington.

Stands a silent red brick building, the blue sign says “6801.”

Deep within this aging structure, toils a group of weary souls.

Listen and you’ll hear their story, now at last their tale unfolds.

No one knows just where they came from, what these people left

behind.

Fearing gods called Nuclear Effects, they sought to tame them for

mankind.

So a program they created; research, test, their tools of trade.

Soon they knew the ways of photons, soon they knew how bills were

paid.

Fresh discovery passed discovery, knowledge flowed throughout the

land.

Survivability the password, of this Defense Nuclear band.

Progress bathed the red brick building, tulips bloomed like AGTs.

Hard devices they designed, and learned to handle EMPs.

Yet as hard work bred success, a change began to creep the halls.

People noticed new requirements, people started building walls.

Budget cuts pared back the programs, can-do folks slipped out the door.

Blue Chips, lost internal letters, CAFRMS, PDS and more.

Gadflies tried to stop some testing, strikes delayed a UGT.

Many months to get on contract, how (the group thought) can this be?

Plans and Programs, short suspenses, PR changes, TDYs.

Many times they raged in silence, many times they rolled their eyes.

Still unmoved the red brick building, has it seen it all before?

On the outside nothing changes, much is happening at the core.

Will the group solve all its problems, equilibrium settling out?

Maybe if they keep on trying, one can only hope and doubt.

Some will look for new approaches, find new pathways to success.

Some will win despite the system, not accepting something less.

So this poem must end in questions, our poor group’s fate lost in

rhyme.

As we question one who chose, to write this tale on Government time.

Hard below the beltway gloomy, near the place called Washington.

Stands a silent red brick building, the blue sign says “6801.”

SIX YEARS

By Chip Hill

There sat they idly, two shapes silent in the mist of morn,

The man’s perch a log of aged wear, the boy’s a stone,

Both incongruous parts in the picture of day being born.

Around them in the damp were clumps of leaves the wind had

strewn

To resemble sleeping birds whose wings would soon be bent in

flight.

Amid the peaceful confusion of the scene the two were all alone.

And all alone had sat throughout the swift retreating night.

Now drops of dew by force unknown descended lightly from the

trees.

Captured in each one a soft and ever changing light.

One by one the insects raised their wings and legs to meet the

thoughtful breeze,

The better might they herald with noise the soggy, drowsy day

And arouse this unfamiliar pair from their slumber or their

freeze.

And like the insects, all the animals seemed to join in this play

To see who’d be the first to wake the quiet two.

Even the clouds began to fill their places in confused array.

The old man sat erect, his eyes a troubled shade of blue.

The wrinkles told the tale of many years upon his face.

Time was short, the boy’s father would soon be due.

Six years had flown, as if each was entered in its last race,

And the boy in the old man’s care had grown tall and strong.

And now the youth found himself at rest in this strange place.

The day before the old man had spoken as they had walked

along,

And told him a tale that was amazing indeed to his ears,

About his real father who had long since left to avenge a wrong.

Who had fought the wars and never in his life known fear,

Who had left his son in the old man’s keeping when he went

away

And left word that on this day would climb the hill and meet

them here.

The old man’s sandal made a path along the dusty clay

Toward the boy who by the tricks of fate was not his own.

Two minds and hearts as one wished that the boy could stay.

Ah, just looking at him, how the boy had grown!

His father’s mirror image in a few years no doubt.

And soon perhaps the lad would walk away and leave one there

alone.

The boy still could not understand what it was all about.

He looked up to the one he might leave, who’d been so good and

kind,

Who was always there to give advice and help him out.

It did not make sense to join the new and leave the old behind.

He didn’t remember his real father anyway,

So how could he solve this puzzle in his own small mind?

Their trains of thought were broken by a sound not far away.

The sound was getting closer up the narrow winding trail.

Yes, it was someone coming toward them is a steady, even way.

The old man stood and strained his eyes and prayed they would

not fail.

He saw at first a speck that grew to become a man.

Turning then, he watched the boy go slightly pale.

As only one so young and with so great a problem can.

Again the old man raised his eyes, and there he stood!

A large and silent man with sandy hair and a soldier’s tan.

He dressed simply but proudly as any soldier would.

Standing as if he were sure of himself, holding his head high.

To hide his emotions, he kept his face as straight as he could.

The gratitude could not be mistaken in the big man’s eye

As he took the old man’s hand in his, then stepped away.

Their love was something deep and firm there beneath the sky.

He then faced his son to hold out his hand and pray.

What passed between them there, no one could know.

The boy rose up, for his heart told him he could not stay.

With bent head the old man sat and watched them go,

Watched them ‘till they disappeared over the rise.

Long hours later, a single tear rolled down his cheek and dropped to the dust below.

I Am “They”

By Chip Hill

When something’s wrong I know just who to

blame.

Doesn’t matter if “they” haven’t got a name.

It only matters that “they” chose a different way.

You see I find the ones at fault are always “they.”

I’ll admit “they” aren’t so easy to describe.

“They” talk different or they’re from a different

tribe.

I don’t understand them ‘cause they’re not like

me.

If I choose A I am sure that they’ll want B.

Seems our echo chambers block diversity,

Crush the sharing that can form community.

We put labels on each other to be smart.

But ol’ “they” has been our go-to from the start.

Still, who are “they,” this group that I accuse?

Besides a nondescript excuse I always use.

If I think of all the things that “they” could be.

Doesn’t “they” mean… all humanity?

Let me give my cleverness and pride a rest.

Can I now detect some virtues “they” possess?

Are there unique people there, within that crowd,

I can’t hear because my voice is much too loud?

If I walk with them, do you think I might find,

Their goals and needs would sometimes sound like

mine?

If I stand with them and use their eyes to see.

Would I sense “they” thoughts, when “they” look

at me?

As we learn “they” isn’t something we should fear,

All our differences would start to disappear.

So is it possible that there could come a day,

When it starts to dawn on me that… I Am “They?”

GREECE FIRST TASTED

By Chip Hill

Ah Greece, thy rocky crags evoke

a vision of the bygone days.

‘Ere marble trees on marble slabs

first raised their face to Helios’ rays.

How many cultures seeped from one to one

across this hallowed ground?

As poems and spears, across the years,

emerged to form a plaintive sound.

Can you sense it? Turn your face

into the wind Lord Byron knew.

And close your eyes to olive trees

and sand and rock ‘gainst azure blue.

There’s wispy scents from Thera’s arc,

Cold paint and dust from Minos’ tomb.

Sea spray tears the eyes of Aegeus

leaping down to watery doom.

Soft sandal sounds on Marathon’s plain

foretell the smoke and blood of war.

A groan from unknown sailors; offerings

at Athina’s temple door.

Gods yet alive, and athletes strive,

forgotten scenes we’ll never know.

The Muses sigh, we hear it… high

on Epidaurus’ final row.

They come in waves, some live in caves,

Crusaders walk Apostles’ trails.

Aromas from the eons soak

the Grecian soil and fill her sails.

Thy spirit must escape, it must!

From beck’ning isles to Olympia’s height.

Give up thy heart! This is a pull

one just accepts, one doesn’t fight.

Ionian meets Aegean, yea

and shall until the end of time.

Here all stands still, invites the fool

to lose himself in simple rhyme.

I SAT THROUGH A STORM THE OTHER DAY

By Chip Hill

I sat through a storm the other day.

It was on a grassy bank next to the little stream

That runs down to the Miller’s apple orchard.

I saw the black clouds welling up away off to the right

Like the breakers of the sea spilling out on the beach.

The wind whipped at my jacket as it flew along in front of the clouds.

I buttoned the top button and turned up the collar and then it was on me.

Handfulls of rain, cautiously at first, then harder, singing against my hair

and glasses.

I should have run for it, but I stayed, held by the urgency of its mission.

I seemed oblivious to the staccato rhythm of the rain on the ground around me

And I dug my heels into the wet clay.

It thundered and I shivered.

Brushes of rain were sweeping the grass in rivulets before them.

I had fun wiping off my glasses with a dry part of my shirt and putting them on

again.

And still the storm was sweeping past, but it was fading,

And I was fascinated, like another stump or stone.

Snatches of rain still clustered here and there and I felt a trail wind on my wet

face.

Climbing the hills to my left, the sounds were leaving me.

Slick leaves and bulrushes drooped like tired soldiers.

Scattered drops continued to bounce here and there, but then they were gone

too.

I broke out of my reverie as she finished speaking.

I would say I was sorry and we would make up again.

ON OUR 50TH

By Chip Hill

There was a time when days would last,

And keep us filled, and memories make.

The perfect time to meet a friend,

To learn how hearts can soar and ache.

That’s when we met, so young, so young,

And shared our light and planned our dreams.

Became as one, and joined our hands

To pass down life’s long trails and streams.

And now, as time speeds up and flies

Before us, blurry, urgent, cold.

Our fifty years seem but a flash

Of thoughts and visions growing old.

Thank God you filled my life. I pray

I may have meant as much to you.

So let us love, ‘till time stands still.

In our next life there’s much to do.