The Whale by Herman Melville

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Whale

The ribs and terrors in the whale
Arched over me a dismal gloom,
While all God’s sun-lit waves rolled by,
And left me deepening down to doom.

I saw the opening maw of hell,
With endless pains and sorrows there;
Which none but they that feel can tell –
Oh, I was plunging to despair.

In black distress, I called my God,
When I could scarce believe Him mine,
He bowed His ear to my complaints –
No more the whale did me confine.

With speed He flew to my relief
As on a radiant dolphin borne;
Awful, yet bright, as lightning shone
The face of my Deliverer God.

My song for ever shall record
That terrible, that joyful hour;
I give the glory to my God,
His all the mercy and the power.

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It Is A Villain, Nell by Dennis Lange

            It Is A Villain, Nell

You may think, little girl, that it is swell,
But close exam the animal will flunk.
I’m telling you: it is a villain, Nell! 

Admiring its soft hair, one cannot tell.
Focus on the tail and you are sunk.
You may think, little girl, that it is swell. 

For it, you’ll get a special place in hell
In tomato juice: a bath, a dunk.
I’m telling you: it is a villain, Nell! 

Its black and white give off no warning bell;
Dear nose and eyes will make you tell me, “bunk!”
You may think, little girl, that it is swell. 

But when it hits you with that awful smell,
You’ll end in isolation like a monk.
I’m telling you: it is a villain, Nell! 

It has appealing points to sway, to sell;
So when you first encounter that cute skunk
You may think, little girl, that it is swell.
I’m telling you: it is a villain, Nell!

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.

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At Set Of Sun by George Eliot

George Eliot/Mary Ann Evans(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

At Set Of Sun

If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
   And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard –
   One glance most kind,
That fell like sunshine where it went –
Then you may count that day well spent. 

But, if, through all the livelong day,
You’ve cheered no heart, by yea or nay –
   If, through it all
You’ve nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face
   No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost –
Then count that day as worse than lost.

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Three Miscellaneous Haiku by Dennis Lange

It’s Home

Don’t you gno?
There’s gnome place in Nome
Dorothy.

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Who Sews?  A Sewer

A close fit
On street’s brick-striped shirt -
A button.

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Per See Ving

One can see
God’s word and still not
Truly see.

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Home – photo by Salva Barbera at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mKtKkps/Gnome+040

Sew – photo by drow at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mWyrooc/manhole+cover

Per – photo by Adrian van Leen at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mpkehgu/polyglott+Bible+and+glasses

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: http://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.

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Glycine’s Song by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Glycine’s Song

A sunny shaft did I behold,
From sky to earth it slanted:
And poised therein a bird so bold –
Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!
He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he troll’d
Within that shaft of sunny mist;
His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,
All else of amethyst! 

And thus he sang: ‘Adieu! adieu!
Love’s dreams prove seldom true.
The blossoms, they make no delay:
The sparkling dew-drops will not stay.
   Sweet month of May,
      We must away;
      Far, far away!
          To-day! to-day!

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photo by Dez Pain at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/moF90iu/Bird+Silhouette+on+Branch+1

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Rush Hour by Dennis Lange

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

               Rush Hour 

I’m grateful for the days I drive
   Long, lonely country roads
That little seems to be alive,
   That lanes have lighter loads 

Than city streets with bustle’s blight,
   The traffic in a bind,
That I might have the time to write
   The traffic on my mind.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.

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Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins

                        Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things –
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
          Praise him.

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Three Miscellaneous Haiku by Dennis Lange

 

Hear Her Here

She complained:
Words fall on deaf ears.
He: Heard that!

——————–

 

Passing The Torch

I’m setting.
I’ve kept the day safe.
It’s your turn.

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The Watcher

The sadness,
Man’s woe on the earth -
I can’t watch.

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Hear – photo by Helmut Gevert at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mC2HKF4/ear

Torch – photo by Bill Davenport at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mg1XCuu/Peggy%27s+Cove

Watcher – photo by Marja Flick-Buijs at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/dMBY9C/Angel+on+woodpanel

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: http://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

——————–

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.

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Vice by Alexander Pope

Vice 

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As to be hated, needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

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photo by Crystal Woronuik at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nxwVPLA/Halloween+Pumpkin
Copyright ©2013 Crystal Woroniuk

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The Old Apartments by Dennis Lange

      The Old Apartments 

Old boxes lined up in a row,
   The homes some could not buy,
Are full of tears as they come down,
   Like rents that rip the sky. 

What were their lives, what were their dreams?
   The walls were witness then
Of loves and hates, of gains and loss –
   O’ give the wood a pen! 

But silent they, a skeleton,
   The walls quite bare, forlorn,
Assaulted by the wrecking crew,
   Their outer garments shorn. 

Their eyes are out; they cannot see,
   Though once they lit with life
That flickered when the sun went down
   Through panes, some pain and strife. 

The workers will be finished soon;
    Like time, they also raze.
And then the building, like all men,
   Will come to end of days.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.

 

 

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