Posted in My Poems, Religious, tagged < META name = "keywords" content = "Foul Harbor, bard on the hill, confession is good for the soul, Dennis Lange, guilty conscience, hidden guilt, poems, poetry, secret shame" > on August 29, 2012| 4 Comments »
Orestes Pursued by the Furies, by John Singer Sargent. 1921. The erinyes represent the guilt for murdering his mother. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Foul Harbor
The one who harbors hidden guilt
And bears a secret shame,
Infected, may rot from within –
His conscience – constant blame.
The poor deserving soul may seek
Release from what he bears,
And come to moment in his life
Confession wants to share.
Such blurting out is good or ill,
A fair wind or a foul,
That fills a sail and moves a ship,
Or tears it with a howl.
If law he broke, it will be just,
If he confesses crime.
And burden may be lifted off
By doing the due time.
And though a new load lies like lead –
The penalty of law –
His heart is lighter like the free,
Released from guilt’s long claw.
The other case is delicate,
And, oh! the tender heart
That lies upon the cutting board,
Yet never had a part.
Confessing thus, will slice like knife,
And wound the very one
The sin was ‘gainst long time ago –
But hurting’s just begun.
And so, transgressor choice must make,
To cut his burden loose
And cut another to the quick,
Or stay in guilt’s long noose.
The first, the sin, was selfish act;
The second selfish, too.
So sufferer must hold his tongue,
And simply pay his due.
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2012.
Posted in My Haiku, tagged < META name = "keywords" content = "Dennis Lange, bard on the hill, Cadillacs, dying, Haikus, hospital visit, mask disguise" >, pickup trucks, poems, poetry, showing off, terminally ill, Texans on August 28, 2012| 9 Comments »
(photo by mzacha via rgbstock.com)
Pickups, Not Cadillacs
We Texans
Often drive big trucks
To show off.
——————–
Wise Guise
Could it be
Taking off a mask
Is dis-guise?
——————–
Evening Call
Setting sun;
Hospital visit –
She’s dying.
——————–
* 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.
Posted in E-H, Poems of Other Poets, tagged < META name = "keywords" content = "Home, bard on the hill, Edgar Guest, poems, poetry, takes a heap of living to make a house a home" > on August 26, 2012| 3 Comments »
(Photo credit: obi via Wikipedia)
Home
It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home,
A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam
Afore ye really ‘preciate the things ye lef’ behind,
An’ hunger fer ‘em somehow, with ‘em allus on yer mind.
It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be,
How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury;
It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything.
Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap o’ livin’ in it;
Within the walls there’s go t’ be some babies born, and then
Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part
With anything they ever used – they’ve grown into yer heart;
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumb-marks on the door.
Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh
An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh;
An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come,
An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’ leave her sweet voice dumb.
For these are scenes that grip the heart, an’ when yer tears are dried,
Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified;
An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories
O’ her that was an’ is no more – ye can’t escape from these.
Ye’ve got to sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,
An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ‘em each day;
Even the roses round the porch must blossom year by year
Afore they ‘come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear
Who used t’ love ‘em long ago, and trained ‘em just t’ run
The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun;
Ye’ve got to love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome;
It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.
Posted in My Poems, tagged < META name = "keywords" content = "Old Things, bard on the hill, Dennis Lange, poems, poetry on August 23, 2012| 11 Comments »
(Photo credit: Matthew Bowden via Wikipedia)
…………….Old Things
The faucet knob in bathroom broke,
…Because ‘twas old and brittle.
There’s nothing made that always lasts –
…They’re only here a little.
No, no! It’s not your fault! Old things
…Just fall apart with wearing.
And it was old, old! old! I know –
…We were the same years sharing.
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2012.
Posted in E-H, Poems of Other Poets, tagged < META name = "keywords" content = "Concord Hymn, bard on the hill, battle of lexington and concord, embattled farmers, patriotic, poems, poetry, Ralph Waldo Emerson, shot heard round the world, votive stone" > on August 23, 2012| 3 Comments »
The Shot Heard ‘Round the World (Photo credit: The National Guard)
…………..Concord Hymn
(sung at the completion of the battle
monument, July 4, 1837)
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
Posted in My Haiku, tagged < META name = "keywords" content = "Dennis Lange, bard on the hill, Haikus, ipad, poems, poetry, snail's pace" > on August 22, 2012| 13 Comments »
iPad mini (Photo credit: patrick-allen)
Baby Techie I
Slide, pause, slide.
That’s me. Granddaughter –
Zip, zip, zip.
*****One granddaughter on the Ipad before 3 yrs of age.
———————
Baby Techie II
Ten-month-old:
She’s an Ipad girl –
Moves the fish.
*****My other granddaughter.
——————–
Poetry Stopped; Poetry In Motion
Babysit,
Snail pace poetry
She – crawler.
*****Babysitting my younger granddaughter.
——————–
* 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.
Posted in A-B (by poet name), Poems of Other Poets, tagged < META name = "keywords" content = "The Cruel Mother, abortion, anonymous, bard on the hill, fine flowers in the valley, green leaves they grow rarely" >, poems, poetry on August 21, 2012| 1 Comment »
(Photo credit: Richard Wheeler via Wikipedia)
(dedicated to all abortionists)
The Cruel Mother
She sat down below a thorn,
Fine flowers in the valley;
And there she has her sweet babe born,
And the green leaves they grow rarely.
“Smile na sae sweet, my bonnie babe,
Fine flowers in the valley,
And ye smile sae sweet, ye’ll smile me dead,”
And the green leaves they grow rarely.
She’s taen out her little penknife,
Fine flowers in the valley,
And twinn’d the sweet babe o’ its life,
And the green leaves they grown rarely.
She’s howker a grave by the light o’ the moon,
Fine flowers in the valley,
And there she’s buried her sweet babe in,
And the green leaves they grow rarely.
As she was going to the church,
Fine flowers in the valley,
She saw a sweet babe in the porch,
And the green leaves they grow rarely.
“O sweet babe, and thou were mine,
Fine flowers in the valley,
I wad cleed thee in the silk so fine,”
And the green leaves they grow rarely.
“O mother dear, when I was thine,
Fine flowers in the valley,
Ye did na prove to me sae kind,”
And the green leaves they grow rarely.
Posted in My Poems, tagged < META name = "keywords" content = "The Gentle Storm That Lived Last Night, bard on the hill, bouncing cannon balls, Dennis Lange, pass beyond the pale, poems, poetry, sun will rise set, Thor, tombstone for the storm" > on August 20, 2012| 15 Comments »
(photo credit: kokakgold via rgbstock
The Gentle Storm That Lived Last Night
The gentle storm that rained last night
Has passed on by today.
Those waking from their wearied rest
Cannot discern which way
It went, since little’s left behind:
A puff of cotton lolls –
No distant sparks from mighty Thor,
No bouncing cannon balls.
A trivial and tiny trail
Is what makes one aware –
A dripping there, a puddle here,
A dampness in the air.
The sun will rise; the sun will set
And off the remnants run
Embarrassed to be so exposed
To the hot staring sun.
Some few were waked within the night
And knew the rain quite well.
It softly fluttered on the roof,
Like friend or kin, it fell.
But sun will rise and sun will set
And memory will fail.
Or else, they also, like the storm
Will pass beyond the pale.
The storm was insignificant
Within the grander scheme.
It had no name, left no flood marks;
No high or low extreme.
Thus sun will rise; the sun will set
And rise to set once more.
The tiny storm that passed last night
Will be in no one’s lore.
When centuries have then passed by
(Or less), what’s to inform
Men of the blesséd rain last night
Save tombstone for the storm?
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2012.
The Bard on the Hill 