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Archive for August, 2011

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel, writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?”  The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the Angel.  Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

The Angel wrote, and vanished.  The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo!  Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

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…………………The Woman Who Talked Too Fast

She’d come up talking quickly and she’d never ever stop like a
rushing whirlwind keeps on spinning like a dusty whirling top and one sentence never ended with a breath or with a pause and all the topics joined with a swiftly uttered clause like one who’s dipping from the beans and slopping from the peas and dishes out the corn just as quickly as you please and moving down the line like a train that’s rushing home, like Visigoths a’ rushing just to get their hands on Rome and while you’re listening nicely, worn to a frazzle just to hear, it seems she never tires nor comes up for some air, and her voice is neither rising nor is falling like the tide, but carries on a monotone, like the calmest carney ride, that doesn’t thrill a soul except the tiny little tots who don’t know any better, that the thrill is in the spots where the coaster waggles one way and swiftly waggles back or it goes so high and then so down it’s nearly coming off the track until you fear for life and your heart is in your throat and you’ve lost all of your senses along with your hat and coat and even though you waited in a long line for the ride, you were praying, somehow, soon that the fearful feelings would subside –

……And so it was with her, with the one who talked too fast,
……She came down to a moment that, sadly, was her last;
……In her abusive home one day, she broke all that could break,
……Then put a bullet in her head; ending all she’d had to take –

………………………………………period.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove;
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and O,
The difference to me!

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Day by day in this hot drought,
There are few clouds that come about.
But when one does, its worth is jade;
I drink of its much-welcomed shade.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of a song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

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As a fellow WordPress poet, I will support you by:

1. Reading your poetry whenever I can.  Part of my routine is to click on the WordPress page for poetry in my favorites bar. http://en.wordpress.com/tag/poetry/
I then begin reading what’s been posted.  If I like the poem at all, I click and go to the blog site and read it.  I go through 5 pages of the WordPress poetry posts whenever I can.  I’ve gone through 10 pages on numerous occasions.

2. When I read your poetry, I may enjoy the entire poem.  Or, I may only see one line or phrase I like.  But, I’m looking for something so I can press “like” when I’ve finished.

3. When I read your poem and like it, I will leave a comment when I have time and feel that I have something to say.

4. When your poetry is my kind of poetry (you write what I like), I will subscribe to your blog.

5. When I’ve subscribed to your blog, I will read each poem for which I receive notification.  And, even if the entire poem should show up within the email, I will click on the link to give your blog a hit.

6. Occasionally, I will go to a blog site I like and look through your archives, hoping to find poems I’ve not yet read that I will enjoy.

7. When I read one of your poems for the first time and like it, I will reread it to enjoy it a second time, and will almost always catch more of your meaning and poetic talent by doing that.

8. I will make notes of poems I think are excellent and will revisit your blog to reread them, just as one loves a song and listens to it or sings it over and over again.

P.S. I hope you will give others the same support that I pledge to you.

Dennis Lange, the bard on the hill

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Beach

Sandy shore
Land and sea hold hands –
Two worlds wed.

Refuge

Still waters
Lie among the trees;
Flee the sun.

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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, 2011.

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One of the ones that Midas touched,
Who failed to touch us all,
Was that confiding prodigal,
The blissful oriole.

So drunk, he disavows it
With badinage divine;
So dazzling, we mistake him
For an alighting mine.

A pleader, a dissembler,
An epicure, a thief –
Betimes an oratorio,
An ecstasy in chief;

The Jesuits of orchards,
He cheats as he enchants
Of an entire attar
For his decamping wants.

The splendor of a Burmah,
The meteor of birds,
Departing like a pageant
Of ballads and of bards.

I never thought that Jason sought
For any golden fleece;
But then I am a rural man,
With thoughts that make for peace.

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Two men looked through prison bars,
One saw mud
And the other saw stars!

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The famine feasts with lack of rain,
And eats the starving mass –
The refugees with bags of pain,
Their stomachs shards of glass.

Their sockets sink; their bellies swell;
They stare with listless eyes,
Like dead men walking in a hell,
Zombies before each dies.

Who cares for Ethiopia?
The little children die
As NATO planes pound Libya
‘Cause there our int’rests lie.

United Nations is a flop,
Just old men moving slow,
Mired in molasses; just a prop,
A sound and circus show.

The leaders meet to talk a bit;
They break to drink and dine;
The fine cuisine of greatest chefs,
The most expensive wine.

And on the shoulders of the men
In capital or hall,
The specters sit as citizens,
The legacy of all.

As thin as plastic wrap can cling,
Skin shrinks against the skull;
The wraiths watch food the waiters bring
With eyes both dead and dull.

Flies on their lips, deep in death’s cave,
They lisp while on those tours:
Your actions drive us to the grave;
We’ll ride with you to yours.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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