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All those who journey, soon or late,
Must pass within the garden’s gate;
Must kneel alone in darkness there,
And battle with some fierce despair.
God pity those who cannot say:
“Not mine but thine”; who only pray:
“Let this cup pass,” and cannot see
The purpose in Gethsemane.

 

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Christmas Truce 1914, as seen by the Illustrated London News.

December: all the pawns, both black and white
Ceased firing and attack for just one night –
For Christmas Day, they’d spent in gift and song
Went into No Man’s Land; there, got along.
Some warring pawns played football; some chased hares,
Forgot for hours all their bloody cares.
And this first line, that must advance and die
Protecting kings that in the distance lie,
Would willingly shake hands across the way
And turn to travel home and there to stay.
But kings in palaces both fair and far
From trenches, live in peace and order war.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

I’ll take you home again, Kathleen,
Across the ocean wild and wide,
To where your heart has ever been,
Since first you were my bonny bride.
The roses all have left your cheek,
I watched them fade away and die;
You voice is sad whene’re you speak,
And tears bedim your loving eyes.

Chorus:
Oh! I will take you back Kathleen,
To where your heart will feel no pain;
And when the fields are fresh and green,
I will take you to your home again.

I know you love me, Kathleen, dear.
Your heart was ever fond and true;
I always feel when you are near,
That life holds nothing dear but you.
The smiles that once you gave to me,
I scarcely ever see them now,
The many, many times I see
A darkening shadow on your brow.

Chorus:
Oh! I will take you back Kathleen,
To where your heart will feel no pain;
And when the fields are fresh and green,
I will take you to your home again.

To that dear home beyond the sea,
My Kathleen shall again return.
And when thy old friends welcome thee,
Thy loving heart will cease to yearn.
Where laughs the little silver stream,
Beside your mother’s humble cot.
And brightest rays of sunshine gleam,
To where your grief will be forgot.

Chorus:
Oh! I will take you back Kathleen,
To where your heart will feel no pain;
And when the fields are fresh and green,
I will take you to your home again.

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sung by Daniel O’Donnell (4:01) –
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogXOCvj0-hA

 

 

mywrn6w

 

The jungle:
The mighty lion
Sleeps tonight.

———————- 

The Lion of Lucerne, Switzerland 

photo by Laura Shreck at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mywrn6w/Lion+of+Lucerne

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the song by the Tokens (2:41) – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQlByoPdG6c

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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, 2017.

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
…..And the elves also,
…..Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o’-th’-Wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;
…..But on, on thy way,
…..Not making a stay,
Since ghost there’s none to affright thee. 

Let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber?
…..The stars of the night
…..Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number. 

Then Julia let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
…..And when I shall meet
…..Thy silv’ry feet,
My soul I’ll pour into thee. 

 

Mortally Wounded and Sinking

Japan bombed Pearl, won by a crooked score.
Though U.S. fleet was famed, they left it sunk and maimed.
But cost to Japs and Germany was more. 

The Japs pretended peace instead of war.
With many subtle lies, they took us by surprise.
Japan bombed Pearl, won by a crooked score. 

Our sailors did not hear the distant roar
Till death was overhead, and bombs were in their bed.
But cost to Japs and Germany was more. 

The Arizona sank to harbor’s floor
Eight battleships were hit; war’s fire by them was lit.
Japan bombed Pearl, won by a crooked score. 

Two thousand U.S. (more!) went out death’s door.
Japan lost but a few of all the ones that flew.
Still, cost to Japs and Germany was more. 

True victors are the ones when war is o’er
Not at the rising sun when war has just begun.
Japan that day won by a crooked score,
But cost both them and Germany the war.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

 

nFhegro

Giant finger
Points into the sky,
Stirs the clouds.

———————– 

photo by Nicolas Raymond at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nFhegro/PEI+Lighthouse

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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, 2017.

Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name;
And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same,
What that name might imply;
But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third,
And quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred
That Ah Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand:
It was euchre. The same
He did not understand;
But he smiled as he sat by the table,
With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked
In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked
At the state of Nye’s sleeve,
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made,
Were quite frightful to see, —
Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,
And said, “Can this be?
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,” —
And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued
I did not take a hand,
But the floor it was strewed
Like the leaves on the strand
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,
In the game “he did not understand.”

In his sleeves, which were long,
He had twenty-four packs, —
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;
And we found on his nails, which were taper,
What is frequent in tapers, — that’s wax.

Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar, —
Which the same I am free to maintain.

 

One gloomy eve I roam’d about
Neath Oxey’s hazel bowers,
While timid hares were darting out,
To crop the dewy flowers;
And soothing was the scene to me,
Right pleased was my soul,
My breast was calm as summer’s sea
When waves forget to roll.

But short was Even’s placid smile,
My startled soul to charm,
When Nelly lightly skipt the stile,
With milk-pail on her arm:
One careless look on me she flung,
As bright as parting day;
And like a hawk from covert sprung,
It pounced my peace away.

 

34498984195_a30763d302_o

Along a side street but a busy one
In Small Town, Texas (true name Ballinger),
Once sat our solar system’s center’s sun,
The theater where movies would appear.

The Texas sat, its shoulders touching two
Mere rubies to its diamond glow at night,
A window to the world that we saw through
From where, in dark, we sat and shared delight.

Subliminal upon the screen or not,
The smell of popcorn wafted through the hall
Till minds were buttered, legs made lobby trot.
Returning, we then ate and drank in thrall.

Most Friday nights and Saturdays were spent
Like precious coins thrown into its fount.
And in return, that social circle lent
The outer, inner world in fair amount.

One winter night, with all the town asleep,
The Texas put on one last private show
That no one watched, though ev’ry seat was cheap
And cheaper still in ashen afterglow.

It was the night that Scarlett’s Tara burned,
When tragic Hindenburg went up in flames,
When the O’Leary lantern overturned,
And fire in Rome fed Christians to the Games.

Ne’er was the passion in the Texas hot
As flames that night that licked the rolls of film
Which twisted, curled, and shrunk till they were not
And they and that theater wrote, “The End.”

There was no second feature for the town;
The empty, burned-out shell is there today.
Just like a trav’ling circus with a clown,
The Texas and our youth both went away.

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The photo is mine, of the shell of the Texas Theater
in Ballinger, Texas.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.