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The one who says Muslim is one leaders muzzle.
Just why is a riddle, a mystery, puzzle.
Transparently obvious for wise man and fool:
A part of the Quran makes some that are cruel.
And equally sure is Osama Bin Laden,
That treacherous fellow on whom we have trodden,
Was Muslim, not Christian, not Buddhist or Hindu,
Whose motive was jihad, who said that I’ll end you.
Now ISIS, the heartless, beheads those who cross it.
Islamic’s the first word. Those letters emboss it.
So why the reluctance that spade is a spade?
Just stop all denying and don’t be afraid;
Just stop all the lying and end the charade.

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President Obama: “no religion is responsible for terrorists”
http://nypost.com/2015/02/18/obama-refuses-to-acknowledge-muslim-terrorists-at-summit/

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

moED5WK


I Like Red Ones

Pretty! Look
Good enough to eat –
Jelly beads.

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nDCidTK

 

Cheers!?

Three, four cheers!
Glass, after glass – cheers!
Till morning.

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Now We Know Why

Country road,
Said John Denver’s song,
Take me home.

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Red – photo by Adrian van Leen at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/moED5WK/baubles+and+beads

Cheers – photo by Cecile Graat at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nDCidTK/Cheers

Now – photo by Andreas Krappweis at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nVIx79a/Winding+Country+Road+through+a

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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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

All the heavy days are over;
Leave the body’s coloured pride
Underneath the grass and clover,
With the feet laid side by side. 

Bathed in flaming founts of duty
She’ll not ask a haughty dress;
Carry all that mournful beauty
To the scented oaken press. 

Did the kiss of Mother Mary
Put that music in her face?
Yet she goes with footstep wary,
Full of earth’s old timid grace. 

‘Mong the feet of angels seven
What a dancer, glimmering!
All the heavens bow down to Heaven,
Flame to flame and wing to wing.

 

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand –
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep – while I weep!
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Men with, or without glasses,
Are more prone to make passes
At girls who wear glasses
As Happy Hour passes
And they’ve emptied their glasses.

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(with apologies to Dorothy Parker)

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

A little Flower grew in a lonely Vale.
Its form was lowly but its colours pale.
One standing the in Porches of the Sun,
When his Meridian Glories were begun,
Leap’d from the steps of fire and on the grass
Alighted where this little flower was.
With hands divine he mov’d the gentle Sod
And took the Flower up in its native Clod;
Then planting it upon a Mountain’s brow –
“’Tis your own fault if you don’t flourish now.”

 


Wooden Shoes

Big help for
Pedestrian feet –
Now beauties!

— 

With these shoes,
Who would ever want
Glass slippers?

— 

Wooden shoes?
Has anyone worn
Wooden socks?

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photo by coolhewitt23 at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/ohNUFxs/blue+wooden+shoes

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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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

 

Once upon Iceland’s solitary strand
A poet wandered with his book and pen,
Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen,
Wherewith to close the volume in his hand.
The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand,
The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken,
And from the parting cloud-rack now and then
Flashed the red sunset over sea and land.
Then by the billows at his feet was tossed
A broken oar: and carved thereon he read:
Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee”;
And like a man, who findeth what was lost,
He wrote the words, then lifted up his head,
And flung his useless pen into the sea.

 

I don’t know what he saw in her,
Or what she saw in him.
But like the garbage and the trash,
The two became a “them”.

And I’m not saying they weren’t matched,
Or that they ought not pair.
It’s just that neither was a catch,
And neither rich, or fair.

And don’t mistake the last as praise
As faint as Texas fog
At noon on any summer day,
Or faint as hair on frogs.

There are those whom all know excel
In one or many ways.
There are those whom we all can tell
Of something less to praise.

But sometimes we just shake our heads
And cluck-cluck like a hen
At people who are thorough breads –
The heels with naught to win.

At lunch, she bit her nails and spat;
She ate, and picked her nose.
To pick and eat is worse than that –
And that’s the way he chose.

He’d laugh and snort just like a horse;
She’d whinny in reply.
And both were wheezing in due course
As if they both might die.

He’d eat a fruit and toss the peel
Behind him on the floor.
She’d pick them up and make a meal
When he tossed number four.

They were great athletes of a kind.
…After the licks and slurps,
They’d reach down deep to see who’d find
The longest, loudest burps.

They both drank beer and bellies grew
Like bubbles blown with gum.
They’d lift their shirts, those zany two,
Laugh, beat them like a drum.

Their teeth were snaggled like a fence
Of broken, rotted boards.
Stains made their mouths both dark and dense –
Tobacco’s chewed rewards.

They made a pretty pair of mates,
A pretty awful pair.
They both were truly heavyweights,
A duo ripe and rare.

We’re glad, that paired, they found their groove.
We owe them greatest thanks.
In marrying, they did remove
Each other from the ranks.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

We’re really the smartest and greatest;
Your thinking is crooked, ours straightest.
If you disagree,
You’ve just proved our plea.
We’re now in white robes; it’s the latest.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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