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Cloudless sky,
Temperature high;
Grass is dry.

Mid-summer:
Hot, and pale blue skies,
Brown pastures.

——————–

* 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, 2016.

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song,
Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea!
Glory of virtue: to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong.
Nay, but she aimed not at glory, no lover of glory she:
Give her the glory of going on, and still to be.

The wages of sin is death: if the wages of Virtue be dust,
Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly?
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just –
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky:
Give her the wages of going on, and not to die.

A thousand squares of reading feet
And all the tomes for sale.
From floor to head, and more, each treat
With wrap and blurbs regale.

Each is a siren with its song
Entreating those who come
To look, to buy, take it along
To be an opium.

The sirens that are mysteries
Are many in their place.
With shadows o’er their face, they please;
They tease and make their case.

A youthful temptress calls the teen;
Another calls the youth.
Sweet Romance is, to many, queen.
Some want nonfiction, truth.

E’en history, that ancient dame,
Calls from her sacred isle,
And beckons with both fact and fame
And her all-knowing smile.

Of all that space, one three by three,
And hard for one to find,
Is that reserved for poetry,
The song that soothes a mind.

My narrow shelf that’s here makes sense,
A sliver of a slot.
Demand is small; the consequence –
This blog’s a lonely spot.

———————————-

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

I know ’tis but a dream, yet feel more anguish
Than if ’twere truth.  It has been often so;
Must I die under it?  Is no one near?
Will no one hear these stifled groans and wake me?

The Mer-turtle

My first glance
Saw brown turtle shell
And white head.

——————–

— 

Fishermen

Fishing net,
Men stretched out into
Fishing line.

——————–

The Sea Of Galilee

Men in boats
Where Jesus once walked.
Still watches.

——————–

 

Fishermen – photo by Karunakar Rayker at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dkzxnO/Fishermen+at+work

Mer-Turtle – photo by Adrian van Leen at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/puL92ki/in+the+back+garden12

Galilee – photo by Alex Bruda at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nFj4Cx2/sea+of+Galilee

——————–

* 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, 2016.

 

O the sun and the rain, and the rain and the sun!
There’s be sunshine again when the tempest is done;
And the storm will beat back when the shining is past;
But in some happy haven we’ll anchor at last.
Then murmur no more,
In lull or in roar,
But smile and be brave till the voyage is o’er.

O the rain and the sun, and the sun and the rain!
When the tempest is done, then the sunshine again;
And in rapture we’ll ride through the stormiest gales,
For God’s hand’s on the helm and His breath in the sails.
Then murmur no more,
In lull or in roar,
But smile and be brave till the voyage is o’er.

With Stonewall Jackson hurt, but not yet dead
Though surgeon-fit for that, his final bed,
Lee heard the cutting news and said aright,
“He’s lost his left arm but I’ve lost my right.”
And when the life of Jackson ebbed away
Like timid tides retreating from a bay,
Robbed Lee, at Gettysburg, was then alone –
He’d lost his eyes and ears beneath a stone.

————————————–

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

I’ll keep a little tavern
Below the high hill’s crest,
Wherein all grey-eyed people
May sit them down and rest.

There shall be plates a-plenty,
And mugs to melt the chill
Of all the grey-eyed people
Who happen up the hill.

There sound will sleep the traveller,
And dream his journey’s end,
But I will rouse at midnight
The falling fire to tend.

Aye, ’tis a curious fancy –
But all the good I know
Was taught me out of two grey eyes
A long time ago.

One nation
Not allowed to stay
Divided.

The West’s key:
The Mississippi.
Win Vicksburg.

Scorch the East;
Cut off Lee’s supplies.
Surrender.


——————–

* 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, 2016.

A star is gone! a star is gone!
There is a blank in Heaven;
One of the cherub choir has done
His airy course this even.

He sat upon the orb of fire
That hung for ages there,
And lent his music to the choir
That haunts the nightly air.

But when his thousands years are pass’d,
With a cherubic sigh
He vanish’d with his car at last,
For even cherubs die!

Hear how his angel- brothers mourn –
The minstrels of the spheres –
Each chiming sadly in his turn
And dropping splendid tears.

The planetary sisters all
Join in the fatal song,
And weep this hapless brother’s fall,
Who sang with them so long.

But deepest of the choral band
The Lunar Spirit sings,
And with a bass-according hand
Sweeps all her sullen strings.

From the deep chambers of the dome
Where sleepless Uriel lies,
His rude harmonic thunders come
Mingled with mighty sighs.

The thousand car borne cherubim,
The wandering eleven,
All join to chant the dirge of him
Who fell just now from Heaven.

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