Poetry of Chip Hill

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The Poetry of Chip Hill
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.”
CH
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.
CH
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?”
CH
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.
CH
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.
CH
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.
CH