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37992961766_8e0b2c41a5_o

Wind and cold,
Cadillac Mountain –
Warm sunset.

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The picture is mine, taken on Cadillac Mountain in
Acadia National Park in Maine.  It is indeed the highest
point along the North Atlantic coast at 1529 feet.  From
Oct.7 to March 6, it is the first place to view the sunrise
in the United States.

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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: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2019.

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(Written as a joke and ascribed to a very
practical business man, Amos J. Walker)
 

Master of masters in the days of yore,
When art met insult, with no law’s redress;
When Law itself insulted Righteousness,
And ignorance thine own scholastic lore,
And thou thine own judicial office more, –
What master living now canst love thee less,
Seeing thou didst thy greatest art repress
And leave the years in riches to restore
To us, thy long neglectors. Yield us grace
To make becoming recompense, and dawn
On us thy poet-smile; nor let us trace,
In fancy, where the old-world myths have gone,
The shade of Shakespeare, with averted face,
Withdrawn to uttermost oblivion.

 

 

on49zwm

I hear a rumble waiting for my meal.
Though I am late for lunch and hunger gnaws,
I’m not the source; my skin does not conceal
The cause. The sound grows louder past each pause.

Outside my window where I sit, the rain
Begins to fall as pellets, then as sheets
Of silver in the darkened skies that drain
Upon the grass and roofs and city streets.

I finish eating in the small café;
The sky’s not fixed the problems with its plumbing.
My next stop is a building on my way –
A tin roof with a hundred drumsticks drumming.

And then I drive into the countryside –
The green trees and the green grass both mist-fogged.
Thus blurred my vision, though eyes opened wide,
For all the world and air is waterlogged.

Against my windshield when my car was still,
The rain was pitter-pattering and kind,
But moving now – splat, splattering until
I am befogged by it and almost blind.

I marvel at its sound and growing size;
The falling bullets burst against my glass.
And then I see their parts and realize
‘Tis hail, not rain, not merely larger mass.

The storm, in all its force, sits over me.
My fellow travelers all slow, pull o’er.
I duck my head, a turtle, and I flee –
The clouds ahead are light, an open door.

And then, there is release, a bit of blue.
Gone is the din, the fearful shattering.
Instead, a mildness like the morning dew –
Much lighter rain, a softer pitter-pattering.

I drive, reflecting on the storm behind
And how it came upon me like a cat
On silent padded paws, a prey to find,
And pounced upon me, and upon me sat.

I saw it for the first time on this day
But recognize that it’s been here before
In clouds of life that thunder, then dismay
As storms that reign until they are no more.

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The photo is by Michalina Piotrowska at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/on49zwM/storm+is+coming

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2019.

If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.

 

16378104734_e65bce56f9_o

Walk the streets.
You’ll see the name fits:
Sin City.

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The photo is mine, taken in Las Vegas.

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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: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/


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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2019.

 

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy;
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind.
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find;
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.

 

2drw0jn

Divorce:
When Siamese twins who were joined for life
By loving each other, then not, get the knife.

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photo by Billy Frank Alexander at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dRW0jn/Broken+Heart

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2019.

 

 

I love to hear thine earnest voice,
Wherever thou art hid,
Thou testy little dogmatist,
Thou pretty Katydid!
Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,-
Old gentlefolks are they,-
Thou say’st an undisputed thing
In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid!
I know it by the trill
That quivers through thy piercing notes,
So petulant and shrill;
I think there is a knot of you
Beneath the hollow tree,-
A knot of spinster Katydids,-
Do Katydids drink tea?

Oh tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do?
And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked, too?
Did Katy love a naughty man,
Or kiss more cheeks than one?
I warrant Katy did no more
Than many a Kate has done.

Dear me! I’ll tell you all about
My fuss with little Jane,
And Ann, with whom I used to walk
So often down the lane,
And all that tore their locks of black,
Or wet their eyes of blue,-
Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,
What did poor Katy do?

Ah no! the living oak shall crash,
That stood for ages still,
The rock shall rend its mossy base
And thunder down the hill,
Before the little Katydid
Shall add one word, to tell
The mystic story of the maid
Whose name she knows so well.

Peace to the ever-murmuring race!
And when the latest one
Shall fold in death her feeble wings
Beneath the autumn sun,
Then shall she raise her fainting voice,
And lift her drooping lid,
And then the child of future years
Shall hear what Katy did.

 

26445845619_e27ca84d27_o

Speed limit
Horses at a walk
Only 10.

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The photo is mine – the Worrall Covered Bridge near Rockingham, Vermont.

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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: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/
—————————-

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2019.

 

 

Whate’er we leave to God, God does,
And blesses us;
The work we choose should be our own,
God leaves alone.

If with light head erect I sing,
Though all the Muses lend their force,
From my poor love of anything,
The verse is weak and shallow as its source.

But if with bended neck I grope
Listening behind me for my wit,
With faith superior to hope,
More anxious to keep back than forward it;

Making my soul accomplice there
Unto the flame my heart hath lit,
Then will the verse forever wear–
Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ.

Always the general show of things
Floats in review before my mind,
And such true love and reverence brings,
That sometimes I forget that I am blind.

But now there comes unsought, unseen,
Some clear divine electuary,
And I, who had but sensual been,
Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary.

I hearing get, who had but ears,
And sight, who had but eyes before,
I moments live, who lived but years,
And truth discern, who knew but learning’s lore.

I hear beyond the range of sound,
I see beyond the range of sight,
New earths and skies and seas around,
And in my day the sun doth pale his light.

A clear and ancient harmony
Pierces my soul through all its din,
As through its utmost melody–
Farther behind than they, farther within.

More swift its bolt than lightning is,
Its voice than thunder is more loud,
It doth expand my privacies
To all, and leave me single in the crowd.

It speaks with such authority,
With so serene and lofty tone,
That idle Time runs gadding by,
And leaves me with Eternity alone.

Now chiefly is my natal hour,
And only now my prime of life;
Of manhood’s strength it is the flower,
‘Tis peace’s end and war’s beginning strife.

It comes in summer’s broadest noon,
By a grey wall or some chance place,
Unseasoning Time, insulting June,
And vexing day with its presuming face.

Such fragrance round my couch it makes,
More rich than are Arabian drugs,
That my soul scents its life and wakes
The body up beneath its perfumed rugs.

Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid,
The star that guides our mortal course,
Which shows where life’s true kernel’s laid,
Its wheat’s fine flour, and its undying force.

She with one breath attunes the spheres,
And also my poor human heart,
With one impulse propels the years
Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start.

I will not doubt for evermore,
Nor falter from a steadfast faith,
For thought the system be turned o’er,
God takes not back the word which once He saith.

I will not doubt the love untold
Which not my worth nor want has bought,
Which wooed me young, and woos me old,
And to this evening hath me brought.

My memory I’ll educate
To know the one historic truth,
Remembering to the latest date
The only true and sole immortal youth.

Be but thy inspiration given,
No matter through what danger sought,
I’ll fathom hell or climb to heaven,
And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought.

Fame cannot tempt the bard
Who’s famous with his God,
Nor laurel him reward
Who has his Maker’s nod.