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If you hear a kind word spoken
Of some worthy soul you know,
It may fill his heart with sunshine
If you only tell him so.

If a deed, however humble,
Helps you on your way to go,
Seek the one whose hand has helped you,
Seek him out and tell him so!

If your heart is touched and tender
Toward a sinner, lost and low,
It might help him to do better
If you’d only tell him so!

Oh, my sisters, oh, my brothers,
As o’er life’s rough path you go,
If God’s love has saved and kept you,
Do not fail to tell men so!

Saw “Sully”.
Then, drove to dinner,
Chosen place.

Location
Was at a tough spot.
First time there.

The remnants
Of five’s thick traffic
To wade through.

Interstate,
Intersects a loop,
Cloverleaf.

Down.  Under.
Lights and then three turns.
Safe landing!

See, Sully?
I watched carefully.
Fast learner.


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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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

Oh! Did you ne’er hear of Kate Kearney?
She lives on the banks of Killarney:
From the glance of her eye, shun danger and fly,
For fatal’s the glance of Kate Kearney.

For that eye is so modestly beaming,
You ne’er think of mischief she’s dreaming:
Yet, oh! I can tell, how fatal’s the spell,
That lurks in the eye of Kate Kearney.

O should you e’er meet this Kate Kearney,
Who lives on the banks of Killarney,
Beware of her smile, for many a wile
Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney.

Though she looks so bewitchingly simple,
Yet there’s mischief in every dimple,
And who dares inhale her sigh’s spicy gale,
Must die by the breath of Kate Kearney.

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history: http://www.contemplator.com/ireland/kearney.html

song (2:48) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jgx-tsSZXhI

Life’s vibrant green they were, but brittle.
With flowing red, they fell.
No wind, yet some still moved a little;
Some screamed their private hell.

Some lay there lifeless, growing colder,
To Winter sacrificed.
The meek nor brave would get no older –
They found Fall over-priced.

Some leaves were left till wind stopped blowing;
They raked those in the morn.
Now in their beds, they’re no more growing
Till Gabriel blows his horn.

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

A frog went a-courting, away did ride, huh-huh,
A frog went a-courting, away did ride,
Sword and pistol by his side, huh-huh.

He rode up to Miss Mousie’s door, huh-huh.
He rode up to Miss Mousie’s door
With his coat all buttoned down before, huh-huh.

He took Miss Mousie on his knee, huh-huh.
He took Miss Mousie on his knee,
And he said my dear will you marry me, huh-huh.

Oh no! kind sir, I can’t say that, huh-huh.
Oh no! kind sir, I can’t say that,
You’ll have to get the consent of my uncle rate, huh-huh.

Uncle rat he laughed and shook his fat side, huh-huh.
Uncle rat he laughed and shook his fat side,
To think that his niece would be a bride, huh-huh.

Oh, where shall the wedding breakfast be, huh-huh.
Oh, where shall the wedding breakfast be,
Way down in the woods in a hollow tree, huh-huh.

The first that came was a long-tailed rat, huh-huh.
The first that came was along-tailed rat –
etc.

 

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sung here (with different lyrics) by The Brothers Four:
(2:45) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GRmk_nKfn9Q

Three warnings
By cops who stopped me
Just this year.

Same problem –
A stubborn brake light.
Three “fixes”.

I’m hoping
I’m more stubborn, and
Fourth’s the charm.


——————–

* 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.

For her golden wedding, Oct.18, 1875

“Lucy.” – The old familiar name
Is now, as always, pleasant,
Its liquid melody the same
Alike in past or present;
Let others call you what they will,
I know you’ll let me use it;
To me your name is Lucy still,
I cannot bear to lose it.

What visions of the past return
With Lucy’s image blended!
What memories from the silent urn
Of gentle lives long ended!
What dreams of childhood’s fleeting morn,
What starry aspirations,
That filled the misty days unborn
With fancy’s coruscations!

Ah, Lucy, life has swiftly sped
From April to November;
The summer blossoms all are shed
That you and I remember;
But while the vanished years we share
With mingling recollections,
How all their shadowy features wear
The hue of old affections!

Love called you.  He who stole your heart
Of sunshine half bereft us;
Our household’s garland fell apart
The morning that you left us;
The tears of tender girlhood streamed
Through sorrow’s opening sluices;
Less sweet our garden’s roses seemed,
Less blue its flower-de-luces.

That old regret is turned to smiles,
That parting sight to greeting;
I send my heart-throb fifty miles,
Though every line ‘t is beating;
God grant you many and happy years,
Till when the last has crowned you
The dawn of endless day appears,
And heaven is shining round you!

He’d heard that amputees have phantom pain –
A sword swung by the ghost of warrior slain,
As though the missing limb had nerves again
And re-attached to body and to brain;

‘Twas true! He felt the stabbing every day –
The phantom soldier keeping up the fray.
And when his chest was pierced, the ache would stay:
His love had left and ripped his heart away.

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

Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword
Wide fields of asphodel fore’er,
To find that the utmost reward
Of daring should be still to dare.

The light of heaven falls whole and white
And is not shattered into dyes,
The light forever is morning light;
The hills are verdured pasturewise;
The angel hosts with freshness go,
And seek with laughter what to brave –
And binding all is the hushed snow
Of the far-distant breaking wave.

And from a cliff top is proclaimed
The gathering of the souls for birth,
The trial by existence named,
The obscuration upon earth.
And the slant spirits trooping by
In streams and cross- and counter-streams
Can but give ear to that sweet cry
For its suggestion of what dreams!

And the more loitering are turned
To view once more the sacrifice
Of those who for some good discerned
Will gladly give up paradise.
And a white shimmering concourse rolls
Toward the throne to witness there
The speeding of devoted souls
Which God makes His especial care.

And none are taken but who will,
Having first heard the life read out
That opens earthward, good and ill,
Beyond the shadow of a doubt;
And very beautifully God limns,
And tenderly, life’s little dream,
But naught extenuates or dims,
Setting the thing that is supreme.

Nor is there wanting in the press
Some spirit to stand simply forth,
Heroic in its nakedness,
Against the uttermost of earth.
The tale of earth’s unhonored things
Sounds nobler there than ‘neath the sun;
And the mind whirls and the heart sings,
And a shout greets the daring one.

But always God speaks at the end:
“One thought in agony of strife
The bravest would have by for friend,
The memory that he chose the life;
But the pure fate to which you go
Admits no memory of choice,
Or the woe were not earthly woe
To which you give the assenting voice.”

And so the choice must be again,
But the last choice is still the same;
And the awe passes wonder then,
And a hush falls for all acclaim.
And God has taken a flower of gold
And broken it, and used therefrom
The mystic link to bind and hold
Spirit to matter till death come.

‘Tis of the essence of life here,
Though we choose greatly, still no lack
The lasting memory at all clear,
That life has for us on the wrack
Nothing but what we somehow chose;
Thus are we wholly stripped of pride
In the pain that has but one close,
Bearing it crushed and mystified.

What’s the rule
For “Circle The Rock”?
Circle it.

And that’s it?
We don’t understand.
Don’t get it.

No, you don’t.
That’s why your group’s back
And outside.

Can we play?
Not till you get it:
Circle it.

A dumb game!
You don’t understand.
It’s great fun.

There’s no fun.
The fun’s to puzzle
Ones like you.

Other name:
Harassing The Flock,
Ones like you.

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photo by Karunakar Rayker at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mm0JW8a/Shorebirds

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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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.