Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for December, 2011

mourner

                          Sonnet LXXI

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I, perhaps, compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay,
   Lest the wise world should look into your moan
   And mock you with me after I am gone.

————————————————————-

photo by Leo Reynolds via Flickr

Read Full Post »

United States penny, obverse, 2002

Image via Wikipedia

A Penny For Your Thoughts

One tickle,
Small caress for brains –
A haiku.

——————————-

Common Courtesy

Ahhhhh… HAIKU!
“God bless you,” she said.
“Thanks”, sneeze passed.

——————————-

Haiku vs. Sonnet

Poem conflicts
With love of formal –
Yet addicts.

——————————-

Japanese Haiku

Great to them.
Do they translate well?
Great to us?

——————————-

Frost in Japan?

Japanese:
Haiku seem to please.
Does “Birches”?

——————————

* 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, 2011.

Read Full Post »

English: Photograph of author Robert Louis Ste...

 

                                   My Shadow 

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow –
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.

He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so closes beside me, he’s a coward, you can see;
I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

 

 

Read Full Post »

English: 2012 Calendar, sized as A4 page

Image via Wikipedia

              On Its First Day

Like babies, we can’t comprehend
   The gift we’ve just been given.
To babe, a late Yule present is
   But pretty wrap and ribbon.

Without the brightness or a bow,
   And only dawn’s adorning,
Our present, on delivery,
   We greet with yawn in morning.

Like babies, we can’t comprehend
   The rules and regulations.
With none attached, we guess and feel –
   Haphazard operation.

It comes as though a string of pearls,
   Yet with one strange condition –
Though strand of hundreds, hands can hold
   But one, that by permission.

Like babies, we can’t comprehend
   The value of the treasure.
It ordinary often seems,
   Of seamless, endless measure.

Since common to man, woman, child,
   Each one alike receiving,
We tend to treat indifferently,
   As if no worth believing.

Like babies, we can’t comprehend,
   The source, and thus aren’t grateful;
We spurn the Giver, grab the gift –
   No thanks.  Some call that hateful.

And yet, when Giver does not give,
   Or takes away in middle,
We grimace, groan with deep regret
   For one who had so little.

So, wake this morning; grab a pearl;
   Use wisely as do few here,
The first within the precious strand –
   That treasure of a new year.

——————————————–

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

Read Full Post »

            A Backward Look

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,
   And lazily leaning back in my chair,
Enjoying myself in a general way –
Allowing my thoughts a holiday
   From weariness, toil and care, –
My fancies – doubtless, for ventilation –
   Left ajar the gates of my mind, –
And Memory, seeing the situation,
   Slipped out in the street of “Auld Lang Syne.” –

Wandering ever with tireless feet
   Through scenes of silence, and jubilee
Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet
Were thronging the shadowy side of the street
   As far as the eye could see;
Dreaming again, in anticipation,
   The same old dreams of our boyhood’s days
That never came true, from the vague sensation
   Of walking asleep in the world’s strange ways.

Away to the house where I was born!
   And there was the selfsame clock that ticked
From the close of dusk to the burst of morn,
When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn
   And helped when the apples were picked.
And the “chany dog” on the mantel-shelf,
   With the gilded collar and yellow eyes,
Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself
   Sound asleep with the dear surprise.

And down to the swing in the locust-tree,
   Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground,
And where “Eck” Skinner, “Old” Carr and three
Or four such other boys used to be
   “Doin’ sky-scrapers,” or “whirlin’ round”:
And again Bob climbed for the bluebird’s nest,
   And again “had shows” in the buggy-shed
Of Guymon’s barn, where still, unguessed, 
   The old ghosts romp throough the best days dead!

And again I gazed from the old school-room
   With a wistful look, of a long June day,
When on my cheek was the hectic bloom
Caught of Mischief, as I presume –
   He had such a “paartial” way,
It seemed, toward me, – And again I thought
   Of a probably likelihood to be
Kept in after school – for a girl was caught
   Catching a note from me.

And down through the woods to the swimming-hole –
   Where the big, white, hollow old sycamore grows, –
And we never cared when the water was cold,
And always “ducked” the boy that told
   On the fellow that tied the clothes. –
When life went so like a dreamy rhyme,
   That it seems to me now that then
The world was having a jollier time
   Than it ever will have again.

Read Full Post »

The Condition Defined

Poetry,
When haiku takes a hike –
Writer’s block.

——————————

Meat market,
When cleavers won’t cut –
Butcher’s block.

——————————

Baby leaves
A or B or C –
Stumbling block.

——————————

Keep coming:
A, B, C, D, E –
Block traffic.

——————————

Tax season,
They say they will help:
HR Block.

——————————

When your spouse
Just does not get it –
The blockhead.

—————————–

Seniors have
Been round and round and
Round the block.

—————————–

That tower –
No, you can’t build it.
City block.

—————————–

Someone heads
For last piece of pie –
Block, tackle.

—————————–

Turning down
An offer for help –
A blockaid.

—————————–

Cloudy day,
Non-working sundial –
Rock clock block.

—————————–

photo by digitalart

—————————-

* 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, 2011.

Read Full Post »

 

A spirit haunts the year’s last hours
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers:
     To himself he talks:
For at eventide, listening earnestly,
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh
     In the walks;
     Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks
Of the mouldering flowers:
   Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
     Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly;
   Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
     Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

The air is damp, and hushed, and close,
As a sick man’s room when the taketh repose
     An hour before death;
My very heart faints and my whole soul grives
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves,
     And the breath
     Of the fading edges of box beneath,
And the year’s last rose.
   Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
     Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly;
   Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
     Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

Read Full Post »

Merry Christmas

Image via Wikipedia

I’ve taken an old song and changed the words a bit, just for you, dear reader:

I wish you a Merry Christmas.
I wish you a Merry Christmas;
I’d give you a million dollars,
But I don’t have that yet.

I wish you a Merry Christmas,
A really really Merry Christmas;
I really wish a Merry Christmas
To my readers, the best.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

—————————————

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

Read Full Post »

The Dreamer (Summer Evening)

Dreamer, say, will you dream for me
   A wild sweet dream of a foreign land,
Whose border sips of a foaming sea
   With lips of coral and silver sand,
Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps,
   Or lave themselves in the tearful mist
The great wild wave of the breaker weeps
   O’er crags of opal and amethyst?

Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream
   Of tropic shades in the lands of shine,
Where the lily leans o’er an amber stream
   That flows like a rill of wasted wine, –
Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green,
   Parry the shafts of the Indian sun
Whose splintering vengeance falls between
   The reeds below where the waters run?

Dreamer, say, will you dream of love
   That lives in a land of sweet perfume,
Where the stars drip down from the skies above
   In molten spatters of bud and bloom?
Where never the weary eyes are wet,
   And never a sob in the balmy air,
And only the laugh of the paroquet
   Breaks the sleep of the silence there?

Read Full Post »

Christmas in the post-War United States

Image via Wikipedia

Shopping Today?

Crazy folks!
Wet, cold.  Out in droves –
Oh! Christmas.

—————————–

A Bit Extra

Bow, ribbons –
A Christmas present.
And more – love.

—————————–

Calling Teetotalers, Too

Get ready.
Christmas hangover –
Credit cards.

—————————-

Christmas Paradox

Tis often
Coldest of weather,
Warmest hearts.

—————————-

Night and Day

Not a match:
Wild and hectic day;
Silent night.

—————————

Man’s Tradition

Birth of Christ?
Not Christmas.  Best guess?
In the spring.

————————–

Trip Dilemma

We have room
For Christmas presents,
Or the kids.

————————–

* 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, 2011.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »