Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for May, 2012

English: A combine harvesting wheat. Photo tak...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

                            Timing

The wheat is gold where month ago was green,
A moist green, whereas the gold is dry,
Maturing dry for harvesting machine;
Dried, too, by dryness of the vacant sky.

Near-ripened heads nod in the nudging wind;
But they, uncovered, are one step from harm.
On nature’s kindness does success depend,
And golden grain means greenbacks for the farm.

A thunderstorm may mushroom in the heat
Expand its anvil head, block out the sun,
Releasing hailstones that will coldly beat
Like drummers drumming, till the wheat is done.

But skies may hold their dread, the icy drops,
And storm may simply take the deepest breath,
Exhaling with a blast that flattens crops,
And brings the harvest to a sudden death.

The farmer is as nervous as a hare
Who smells the scent of hounds and hears their hue.
They whine, then fade, then near the open lair,
And caught twixt hide or run – which shall he do?

For farmer knows that fall and winter, wet,
Have now been followed by a drying out
That lengthens like the contrails of a jet
In empty skies now drifting into drought.

The tension’s in the tilling of the soil
A line as fine as any furrow’s vein –
Two needs grow tighter in a coil:
A harvest one day, followed by a rain.

————————————————-

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2012.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

Eastman Johnson 1870s - "The Girl I Left ...

Eastman Johnson 1870s – “The Girl I Left Behind Me” (Photo credit: deflam)


The Girl I Left Behind Me

The dames of France are fond and free,
And Flemish lips are willing,
And soft the maids of Italy,
And Spanish eyes are thrilling;
Still, though I bask beneath their smile,
Their charms fail to bind me.
And my heart falls back to Erin’s Isle,
To the girl I left behind me.

For she’s as fair as Shannon’s side,
And purer than its water,
But she refused to be my bride
Though many years I sought her;
Yet since to France I sailed away,
Her letters oft remind me,
That I promised never to gainsay
The girl I left behind me.

She says, “My own dear love come home,
My friends are rich and many,
Or else, abroad with you I’ll roam,
A soldier stout as any;
If you’ll not come, nor let me go,
I’ll think you have resigned me.”
My heart nigh broke when I answered “No,”
To the girl I left behind me.

For never shall my true love brave
A life of war and toiling,
And never as a skulking slave
I’ll tread my native soil on;
But were it free or to be freed,
The battle’s close behind me
To Ireland bound, nor message need
From the girl I left behind me.

 

Read Full Post »

Harry Houdini, full-length portrait, standing,...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Rosabelle, Believe

From death’s grip,
Harry Houdini –
No escape.

 

 

***The title is the two words Houdini told his wife that he would say if he could communicate from the grave, not wanting her to be deceived by mediums and spiritists.

——————–

An Asp In Eden

None aspires
To aspirate an
Aspirin.

——————–

New House

The new door
Said to new windows,
”It’s curtains!”

——————–

* 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, 2012.

Read Full Post »

 

A 1718 quarter-guinea coin from the reign of G...

(Photo credit: Classical Numismatic Group, Inc. http://www.cngcoins.com via Wikipedia)

I had a guinea golden –
I lost it in the sand –
And tho’ the sum was simple
And pounds were in the land –
Still, had it such a value
Unto my frugal eye –
That when I could not find it –
I sat me down to sigh.

I had a crimson Robin –
Who sang full many a day
But when the woods were painted,
He, too, did fly away –
Time brought me other Robins –
Their ballads were the same –
Still, for my missing Troubadour
I keep the “house at hame.”

I had a star in heaven –
One “Pleiad” was its name –
And when I was not heeding,
It wandered from the same.
And tho’ the skies are crowded –
And all the night ashine –
I do not care about it –
Since none of them are mine.

My story has a moral –
I have a missing friend –
“Pleiad” its name, and Robin,
And guinea in the sand.
And when this mournful ditty
Accompanied with tear –
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here –
Grant that repentance solemn
May seize upon his mind –
And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find.

Read Full Post »

American Robin -- Humber Bay Park (East) (Toro...

by User:Mdf (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

          The Signal

The harbinger of winter is
The flash of falling leaves;
The color floats and drops to ground
As trees roll up their sleeves.

And as Old Winter loses grip,
The trees repeat their thing,
As flash of color, robin drops –
The harbinger of spring.

—————————————-

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2012.

Read Full Post »

Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis) or R...

(Photo credit: Dominic Sherony via Wikipedia)

              Music

Let me go where’er I will
I hear a sky-born music still;
It sounds from all things old,
It sounds from all things young,
From all that’s fair, from all that’s foul,
Peals out a cheerful song.

It is not only in the rose,
It is not only in the bird,
Not only when the rainbow glows,
Nor in the song of woman heard,
But in the darkest, meanest things
There alway, alway, something sings.

‘Tis not in the high stars alone,
Nor in the cup of budding flowers,
Nor in the redbreast’s mellow tones,
Nor in the bow that smiles in showers,
But in the mud and scum of things
There alway, alway, something sings.

Read Full Post »

Teacher in primary school in northern Laos

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Fewer/Less

Fewer birds
Because you can count.
And less time.

—————-

Their/There

Their mistakes
Are the ire of men
Over there.

—————-

Listen Is A Verb

Hear me out:
Don’t “take a listen”.
Just listen.

—————-

Except After C

Just believe
An I before E
Don’t – deceive.

—————-

In the 7th through the 12th grades, I had two excellent English teachers.  One of those, I had twice.  No!  I didn’t fail.  🙂  Another taught me conjugation of verbs and diagramming, for which I’ve always been grateful.  A fourth was a good teacher, but I don’t recall anything that stands out from her classes.  A fifth – well, enough said.  I’ve sometimes wondered what Mrs. Ruby (the teacher I had for two years) would think of my poetry.  She had an intensity and passion about her that brought a fire into her eyes as she talked about literature.  My love of poetry was fueled by her classes, so she’s the one person I would have most wanted to read my poems.

—————-

* 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, 2012.

Read Full Post »

                     Progress

There was a grave fellow named Bullet
With no sense of humor, not one bit.
But we’ve seen him improve.
He’s now in his groove.
He’s so pleased that now he’s a halfwit.

———————————————–

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2012.

 

Read Full Post »

Rose rose

(Photo credit: Goldy, Christopher Mehay via Wikipedia)

                 Out Of The Vast

There’s a part of the sun in the apple,
There’s a part of the moon in a rose;
There’s a part of the flaming Pleiades
In every leaf that grows.

Out of the vast comes nearness;
For the God whose love we sing
Lends a little of His heaven
To every living thing.

 

Read Full Post »

Greater Swiss Mountain Dog puppy sleeping.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)


Surrender

It’s late at night, and the new black dog
That’s still a pup that’s growing
Comes to my side, and he wants a lift
Into my lap for holding.

It’s strange, this act, for the new black dog
Will shy away from lifting
As if he feels that the earth below
Is then unsure and shifting.

Most times, it’s true, that we play a game
Where he, at first, shows yearning
He raises up, and he puts black paws
Against my leg, thus earning

A reach by me, and I try to lift
Him on my lap for loving
That’s when he shies, and I miss the dog –
He’s quick in backward moving.

But on this night, it’s the new black dog
Who’s still and wants the boosting
Into my lap where he curls and lies –
A place for late night roosting.

It’s late at night, and the new black dog
That’s still a pup that’s growing
Is pooped, played out, and he needs to rest
From all his puppy going.

————————————————

The picture above is NOT of my new black dog, which is a
lanky-looking Chihuahua with big pointed ears, three
brown socks and one white one.

————————————————-

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2012.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »