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d day

The waves, as ocean waves will do,
Rolled toward the sandy beach.
Wave after wave rolled from the sea
To stretch toward land and reach.

Once there, the sand resisted more,
And waves died on its breast.
But wave and wave and wave rolled in
Without a moment’s rest.

The sand stood firm in its defense
And dunes and cliffs stood guard.
But still the waves in stubborn lines
Rolled in, though it was hard.

And inch by costly inch was gained:
The waves rolled farther in
And made the beach dark with the stain
They left as dying men.

Still onward rolled the wondrous waves;
Still higher rose the tide,
Until the land was o’ercome by
What could not be denied.

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

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.3d-doubloons

(Please read the note that follows the poem.)

\…………….Beachcomber

The new day sparkles on the sea,
     A diamond in disguise.  
New clouds move landward in the breeze;
     Each wave sings lullabies.

The sand is fresh, bathed by the waves
     That make deposits, new –    
The shells they shove upon the shore,
     Like treasures for the few

Who, waking early, eagerly
     Anticipate the strand;
Who know the doubloons of the day
     Lie gleaming in the sand.

——————————————————————

I’ve used the thoughts of this poem for the cover of
my new book, available at Amazon.  It contains 80
of my very best poems, only a handful of which I’ve
published here.  If you’ve liked the best of my poems
here, you’ll love these.

——————————————————————-

© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

 

The king sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine o:
‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship of mine o?’

O up and spake an eldern-knight,
Sat at the king’s right knee:
‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever saild the sea.’

Our king has written a braid letter,
And seald it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

‘To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway oer the faem;
The king’s daughter of Noroway,
‘Tis thou maun bring her hame.’

The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud, loud laughed he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.

‘O wha is this has done this deed,
And tauld the king o me,
To send us out, at this time of the year,
To sail upon the sea?’

‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hall, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the faem;
The king’s daughter of Noroway,
‘Tis we must fetch her hame.’

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,
Wi’ a’ the speed they may;
They hae landed in Noroway,
Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week
In Noroway but twae,
When that the lords o Noroway
Began aloud to say:

‘Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our king’s goud,
And a’ our queenis fee.’
‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!
Fu’ loud I hear ye lie!

‘For I brought as much white monie
As gane my men and me,
And I brought a half-fou’ o’ gude red goud,
Out o’er the sea wi’ me.

‘Make ready, make ready, my merry-men a’!
Our gude ship sails the morn.’
‘Now ever alake, my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm!

I saw the new moon, late yestreen,
Wi’ the auld moon in her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we’ll come to harm.’

They hadna sail’d a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap,
It was sic a deadly storm;
And the waves cam o’er the broken ship,
Till a’ her sides were torn.

‘O where will I get a gude sailor,
To take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall top-mast;
To see if I can spy land?’

‘O here am I, a sailor gude,
To take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall top-mast
But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.’

He hadna gane a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.

‘Gae, fetch a web o’ the silken claith,
Another o’ the twine,
And wap them into our ship’s side,
And let na the sea come in.’

They fetchd a web o the silken claith,
Another o the twine,
And they wapped them roun that gude ship’s side
But still the sea came in.

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords
To weet their cork-heel’d shoon!
But lang or a the play was play’d
They wat their hats aboon,

And mony was the feather-bed
That fluttered on the faem,
And mony was the gude lord’s son
That never mair cam hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their hair,
A’ for the sake of their true loves,
For them they’ll see na mair.

O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,
Wi’ their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
Wi’ their goud kaims in their hair,
A’ waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they’ll see na mair.

O forty miles off Aberdeen,
‘Tis fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.

falling

A bump on the head caused confusion,
An inner and outer contusion.
The outer was minor,
Not more than a shiner.
The inner brought life to conclusion.

———————————————–

We worry about broken bones from falls and the bruises we can
see, but it is what we cannot see that may prove to be the worst.

————————————————————————-

© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

Wherefore feed and clothe and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat — nay, drink your blood?

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love’s gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?

The seed ye sow another reaps;
The wealth ye find another keeps;
The robes ye weave another wears;
The arms ye forge another bears.

Sow seed, — but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth, — let no imposter heap;
Weave robes, — let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, in your defence to bear.

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.

With plough and spade and hoe and loom,
Trace your grave, and build your tomb,
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre!

joe dimaggio

Jolting Joe,
The Yankee Clipper –
Not Tugboat.

———————-

Tolstoy’s
Novel of hair loss –
Wore A Piece.

———————-

John Steinbeck’s
Book of hangovers –
Grapes Of Wrath.

——————————–

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

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

© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

Past ruin’d Ilion Helen lives,
Alcestis rises from the shades;
Verse calls them forth; ’tis verse that gives
Immortal youth to mortal maids. 

Soon shall Oblivion’s deepening veil
Hide all the peopled hills you see,
The gay, the proud, while lovers hail
These many summers you and me.

 

Los Angeles Lakers v Boston Celtics

His height made him great ’round the basket.
But sadly, poor Wilt blew a gasket.
Dismayed by his death,
We all held our breath –
Would Chamberlain fit in a casket?

—————————————————–

© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

 

 

We live by faith; but faith is not the slave
Of text and legend. Reason’s voice and God’s;
Nature’s and Duty’s, never are at odds.
What asks our Father of His children, save
Justice, mercy and humility,
A reasonable service of good deeds,
Pure living, tenderness to human needs,
Reverence and trust, and prayer for light to see
The Master’s footprints in our daily ways.

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I would add this:  Biblical faith is not a blind leap.
It is not without reason or against reason.  It is
based upon evidence and many verses show this
to be true.  I believe in God, the Bible as His word,
and Jesus as the Christ risen from the dead because
there is abundant evidence for each.  DL

mhbLZiq (1)

Those rocks are
The Maginot Line
For glaciers.

———————————–

photo by Kevin Tuck at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhbLZiq/Glacier+edge

———————————–

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

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

© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.