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‘What do you make so fair and bright?’

‘I make the cloak of sorrow:
O lovely to see in all men’s sight
Shall be the cloak of Sorrow,
In all men’s sight.’ 

‘What do you build with sails for flight?’

‘I build a boat for Sorrow:
O swift on the seas all day and night
Saileth the rover Sorrow,
All day and night.’ 

‘What do you weave with wool so white?

‘I weave the shoes of Sorrow:
Soundless shall be the footfall light
in all men’s ears of Sorrow,
Sudden and light.’

 

For all of time in ev’ry case,
In ev’ry nation, ev’ry race,
To wed was man and woman’s place. 

Just where is marriage now defined? –
Except in whate’er comes to mind
From whate’er lusts that will men find.

 

 

Sweet Bird Sandwich

Oriole?
Outside black; in, light –
Oreo.

——————–

 

A Haiku Knot

A knot hole
Is not not a hole
If knot’s not.

——————–

 

Mahogany? Try Jesus

It’s hidden:
The wormwood of sin
In our souls.

——————–

Bird – photo by John Boyer at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nl5WYtI/Friends+of+Birds

Knot – photo by Robert Lindner at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/n145XA4/Knot+Hole

Mahogany – photo by Bill Davenport at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mg1Sl7y/Wormwood

——————–

* 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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

Prayer is the little implement
Through which Men reach
Where Presence – is denied them.
They fling their Speech 

By means of it – in God’s ear –
If then He hear –
This sums the Apparatus
Comprised in Prayer –

 

Our fate is sealed; gone is the rule of law.
The court has taken on itself a role
Of changing words to legislate; its claw
So proud in reason as it takes control.

The source that gives it power is ignored –
It does not matter what a word might say,
Nor that its range is roped – it cuts the cord.
It bends words since it feels a certain way.

We are a Sodom waiting for the fire,
Gomorrah for the brimstone’s choking smell.
We’re tolerant of sin because the choir
We’re singing in wears robes that come from hell.

God’s holy Court will soon in judgment sit
And lowly court will get its final writ.

——————————————————-

Prov.14:34 Righteousness exalts a nation, but sin
is a reproach to any people.

——————————————————-

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

An apple for the teacher’s swell;
It keeps the doc away.
But as I keep my teacher well,
She’s teaching ev’ry day. 

I’d like a sub who can’t say “no”,
Who lets us pupils slide,
Who won’t give homework as a woe,
Won’t miss me if I hide. 

An apple’s a too healthy food;
A different tack I’ll take.
I’ll be a student smart and shrewd –
Bring sweets like cookies, cake.

———————————————

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

A pupil in a poetry class was asked to write a short verse using
the words “analyze” and “anatomy”.  Here is what he wrote:

My analyze over the ocean,
My analyze over the sea,
My analyze over the ocean –
O, bring back my ana-to-my.

———————————

From The Speaker’s Book of Illustrations by Herbert V. Prochnow


Not Pail By Comparison

Sits atop
Tom Thumb’s little fence –
A thimble.

——————–

 

Barred

A fine fence!
It keeps out so much,
E’en the sun.

——————–

 

The Living And The Dead

The flower
May once have had life.
The god? No.

——————–

Pail – photo by Kriss Szkurlatowski at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhYb59Q/Old+flowerpot+on+the+fence

Barred – photo by Edmondo Dantes at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/o8DYzbm/fence

Living – photo by Dominic Morel at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mf8aq2g/Pray

——————–

* 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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

They leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom they were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken.

The San Francisco hills are, day by day,
A mystery that never goes away.
Some need a revelation so they’ll know
Why they put on the purest iv’ry show.

They daily seem to smoke as if on fire,
And wear their white robes like a virgin choir.
But on their slopes there is no leaping flame
That Smoking Mountains would become their name.

Though Twain deemed San Francisco summer’s cold
No one who knows would be so wrong and bold
To say the hills, upon their heads, wear snow
So they are white and wise like old men grow.

It really is too complex to explain
The factors here in my too short refrain.
So, in the end, my simple answer’s that
On San Francisco hills sits Sandburg’s cat.

——————————————————

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

——————————————————

Mark Twain supposedly said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.”

Fog by Carl Sandburg:
https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/06/10/fog-by-carl-sandburg/

If Sandburg’s Cat Were Mine:
https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2015/01/14/if-sandburgs-cat-were-mine-by-dennis-lange/

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