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Archive for August, 2012

       John Anderson

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

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Orestes Pursued by the Furies, by John Singer ...

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.

—————————————-

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

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                                Sleep

Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,
Th’ indifferent judge between the high and low;

With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
O make in me, those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,
A rosy garland and a weary head:
And if these things, as being thine in right,

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image see.

 

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(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.

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The dining room

(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.

 

 

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Faucet Deutsch: Wasserhahn

(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.

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The Shot Heard 'Round the World

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.

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iPad mini

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.

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Penknife

(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.

 

 

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(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.

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