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Atlanta lost, like some prized wedding ring
Whose bride can ne’er recover from the sting,
Hood’s Rebel army marched to Tennessee
To search the western vales for victory.

And on the trek, Pat Cleburne saw a place
So beautiful a smile came on his face –
A church and cemetery, and Pat swore,
“Why, this is almost worth one’s dying for!”

Just two weeks later, it became his bed
For he, at Franklin, was among the dead.
And though he laid there, blind to e’en the stars,
The nations foolishly keep fighting wars.

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The picture is mine of a mural of General Pat Cleburne
that is on a wall of a building in downtown Cleburne, Texas.

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Cleburne was at first buried elsewhere, but someone
remembering his words urged that he be buried at that
site.  He was, but was later buried in his “hometown” of
Helena, Arkansas.

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

There’s a patch of old snow in a corner,
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.

It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I’ve forgotten –
If I ever read it.

mf8aoly

A large crowd
Will never annoy
A koi.

Push and shove.
Here, you don’t have to
Be coy.

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photo by 2heads_Advertising (Dominic Morel) at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mf8aoLy/Koi+party

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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, 2016.

ouorxtg

 

Thou dread, uncanny thing,
With fuzzy breast and leathern wing,
In mad, zigzagging flight,
Notching the dusk, and buffeting
The black cheeks of the night,
……With grim delight!

What witch’s hand unhasps
Thy keen claw-cornered wings
From under the barn roof, and flings
Thee forth, with chattering gasps,
……To scud the air,
And nip the ladybug, and tear
Her children’s hearts out unaware?

The glowworm’s glimmer, and the bright,
Sad pulsings of the firefly’s light,
Are banquet lights to thee.
O less than bird, and worse than beast,
Thou Devil’s self, or brat, at least,
Grate not they teeth at me!

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photo by Bartek Ambrozik at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oUoRxTG/Bats

dmby9c


(sung to the tune of Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina)

Hillary: Don’t cry for me little liberals.
The truth is I’ve got my millions;
Hug tight your mommies
And be good commies.
I preached the dogma,
But I’m not sharing.

Bill: That’s a good one, Hillary! (laughing)

Hillary: Don’t cry for me, femi-Nazis.
We did crack the marble ceiling,
Pelosi’s ceiling,
Though I’ve a headache
For marble won’t break,
And Bill I can’t take.

Bill: What was that?  What did she just say?

Hillary: Don’t cry for me, foreign donors.
Your gamble was Trumped in November.
I’ve got your money
And you’ve got nothing.
I think it’s funny.
We’ve got your money.   (Bill sings, too, then laughs)

Hillary: Don’t cry for me, Lord Obama.
Cry for yourself, you loser.
Stomp, curse, and shed tears
For all your eight years,
Both of your two terms
Stamped out like bad germs.

Bill: There goes his legacy.

Hillary: Don’t cry for me, California.

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In case you’re not familiar with the song (which I think is one of
the most beautiful of songs), you can hear it here.  The part for
my song poem starts about 2:14 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1PWO11ilSYc

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photo by Marja Flick-Buijs at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/dMBY9C/Angel+on+woodpanel

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

There is so much good in the worst of us,
And so much bad in the best of us,
That it ill behooves any of us
To find fault with the rest of us.

mgynpso


Nakusa is Hindi for “unwanted”, a name given to
many unwanted girls in India.  See the article link
below the poem.

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In ancient Rome, the babies were exposed
To all the elements and left to die
When their existence was by men opposed
And hardened hearts heard not their tiny cry.

Today, we wear smooth silk, don sweet perfume,
Refined in all we do, quite civilized.
Expose them? No! They have another doom:
We cut their spinal cords – murder reprised.

In name or deed, we say, “Unwanted child!”
Our self, not you, is what is highly prized.
The old and new have hearts by hate defiled.
But we’re far better – we are civilized!

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The unwanted girls of India change their names:
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/44998378/ns/world_news-wonderful_world/?gt1=43001

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photo by sanja gjenero at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mgynPSO/garbage+bin+3

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

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a sweeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Of if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty – Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at is lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure sigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips;
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

The white fog;
The Golden Gate Bridge;
Three bright sails.

Low ceiling
But amply clearance
‘Neath high bridge.

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photo by Cathy Snider at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mHVlnze/Golden+Gate+Bridge+6

——————–

* 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, 2016.

Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine, – O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!

(I, that would not wait to wear
My own bridal things,
In a dress dark as my hair
Made my answerings.

I, to-night, that till he came
Could not, could not wait,
In a gown as bright as flame
Held for them the gate.)

Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine, – O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!