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Archive for July, 2013

A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
   And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say
   The breath goes now, and some say, No;

So let us melt, and make no noise,
   No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,
Twere profanation of our joys
   To tell the laity our love. 

Moving of th’ earth brings harms and fears,
   Men reckon what it did and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
   Though greater far, is innocent. 

Dull sublunary lovers’ love
   (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
   Those things which elemented it. 

But we, by a love so much refined
   That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
   Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss. 

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
   Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
   Like gold to airy thinness beat. 

If they be two, they are two so
   As stiff twin compasses are two,
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
   To move, but doth, if th’ other do. 

And though it in the center sit,
   Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
   And grows erect, as that comes home. 

Such wilt thou be to me, who must
   Like th’ other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
   And makes me end where I begun.

 

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It’s Gonna Be Tough

Are you sure
Soprano can hit
That high note?

——————–

Springing To Life?

Not quite real
She’s an odd mixture.
But lifelike.

——————–

Two Caps

Now, sun-crowned –
Morning Matterhorn.
E’er snow-crowned.

——————–

Tough – photo by Adrian van Leen at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mmFbGiu/what%27s+the+score%3F+Musical+bird

Springing – photo by Gabriel at  http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/meS42Fi/Fun

Two Caps – photo by Laura Shreck at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/myopQzQ/The+Matterhorn%21

——————–

* 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, 2013.

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English: "The Jabberwock, with eyes of fl...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

              Jabberwocky

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
   Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
   And the mome raths outgrabe. 

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
   The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
   The frumious Bandersnatch!” 

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
   Long time the manxome foe he sought –
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
   And stood awhile in thought. 

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
   The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
   And burbled as it came! 

One, two!  One, two!  And through and through
   The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
   He went galumphing back. 

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
   Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day!  Callooh!  Callay!
   He chortled in his joy. 

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
   Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
   And the mome raths outgrabe.

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HumptyDumpty

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)


I Spot A Spot, My Spot

I’ve noticed that in getting older,
   Things begin to change.
I have grown wiser, but not bolder –
   Yet, I don’t find that strange. 

Perhaps the two are never matching –
   Is it e’er wise to chance?
A fall from heights and you’ll need patching;
   Ask Humpty Dumpty’s aunts. 

I rise some mornings with an aching,
   As though the bed gave blows;
And fingers take so long in waking –
   Old Arthur, I suppose. 

And fewer things on me are working;
   And some that do, not well.
Now what’s that sudden pain, or jerking?
   Is there a voodoo spell? 

And oft these days, I look, am finding
   A spot not there at birth.
Dalmatian, me?  I am not minding
   While I have spot on earth.

———————————————–

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.

 

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Rookie Gravediggers

Six feet under we bury most dead men
And some we might even go more – ten.
    This one’s planted like wheat,
    And not even two feet.
Please shovel more snow on the frozen.

————————————————————

photo by Steve Woods at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhvvnFk/Snow+Boots

————————————————————

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.

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Before The Birth Of One Of Her Children  

All things within this fading world hath end,
Adversity doth still our joyes attend;
No tyes so strong, no friends so dear and sweet,
But with deaths parting blow is sure to meet.
The sentence past is most irrevocable,
A common thing, yet oh inevitable;
How soon, my Dear, death may my steps attend,
How soon’t may be thy Lot to lose thy friend,
We both are ignorant, yet love bids me
These farewell lines to recommend to thee,
That when that knot’s unty’d that made us one,
I may seem thine, who in effect am none.
And if I see not half my dayes that’s due,
What nature would, God grant to yours and you;
The many faults that well you know I have,
Let be interr’d in my oblivious grave;
If any worth or virtue were in me,
Let that live freshly in thy memory
And when thou feel’st no grief, as I no harms,
Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms:
And when thy loss shall be repaid with gains
Look to my little babes my dear remains.
And if thou love thy self, or loved’st me
These O protect from step Dames injury.
And if chance to thine eyes shall bring this verse,
With some sad sighs honour my absent Herse;
And kiss this paper for thy loves dear sake,
Who with salt tears this last Farewel did take.

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The Cupcake’s New Friend

Sir Sprinkles,
I’d like you to meet
Mr. Floor.

——————–

 

 

An A-wreck-nid

Did driver,
To spin glassy web,
Use his head?

——————–

 

 

It’s Up 2 You

World’s a mess?
No good people left?
You B 1.

——————–

Cupcake – photo by Michael Lorenzo at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mlCu9le/cupcake

Wreck – photo by David Ritter at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhhLqik/Broken+Window

Up 2 You – photo by Marja Flick-Buijs at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mQQ9dkG/Be+One

——————–

* 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, 2013.

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                 Eternity

He who bends to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sunrise.

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Waiting For The Mail

Throughout the fifties, on the farm, while I was just a kid
Ten miles from town, it seemed the world, from us, was safely hid.
There was a phone, a hundred yards, down where my grandma dwelled,
And television! black and white, with all the charm it held.
But that was it, the only cords connecting rest of man
Outside the farm, except the road we’d only drive by plan.
And so there was a ritual we practiced ev’ry day
In summertime, when we were starved for world so far away.
We’d hop into the car or truck and fill it like a pail,
And drive two miles down dusty road and wait there for the mail. 

The dirt road met the highway there, like arteries that cross,
Though highway had the largest flow – a stop showed it was boss.
A pause to honor silent sign; a left, and we would park
Along the highway’s shoulder since we all had time to mark.
For though we knew the carrier would come a certain time,
There was occas’nal variance away from center’s prime.
On Mondays, with some extra mail, he’d be a little late;
And when the magazines were out, he carried extra weight.
Or sometimes he was simply slow, and sometimes he would ail.
There was a bit of chance and fate when waiting for the mail. 

By road, upon their posts and boards, the shiny boxes sat
Like loaves of bread baked in the sun and dipped in silver vat.
The end slice was a handled hatch, hinged, opened from the top,
Which then revealed receptacle when pulled and let to flop.
One driving by who saw the cars and did not know the scene
Would think that we were worshippers who for our gods convene.
But center of attention was not shells that had no prize.
Our glance kept going up the road to crest that held our eyes,
That we might be the first to spot the speck, the Holy Grail,
For even those mailboxes were just waiting for the mail. 

Anticipation was so keen, that we were rarely late.
We nearly always beat the man and had to sit and wait.
But if we were the first ones there, we’d check the box in case
The mailman had been rapid and had set a record pace.
If Herman Stokes was sitting there in his old beat-up truck,
Or Uncle Robert, then we’d ask, “Mail come yet?  Any luck?”
And then the answer, that we knew, would come back like a shot,
That country drawl of farm and ranch, “Well, no, I reckon not.”
And after we had cracked the joke that service was a snail,
We’d sit a while and shoot the bull, just waiting for the mail. 

And as we talked, like swinging gate, our gaze went to and fro,
From hill to speaker then to hill, and hill, and hill – our beau.
There were the times our hearts, in talk of drought or crops or things,
Near skipped a beat, picked up their pace, as hearts do when hope springs.
For eyes would catch a sudden glimpse atop the distant hill –
A dot, a glint, a sudden move, too far to tell with skill.
Then, someone with the keenest eye, would, disappointed, say,
“It’s just a truck” or “Color’s wrong” (the mailman’s car was gray).
And it would near and then would pass, like convict out of jail
For no one else was welcome when we waited for the mail. 

But ev’ry day, he fin’lly came, except on holidays.
(And once or twice we sat on them, dismayed and in a daze.)
He’d top the crest and all would look.  “It could be him,” we said.
All talk would end when we confirmed the box would soon have bread.
He’d slow, so slow, and start to pull off of the road and aim
His right tire left of silver row, first box in window’s frame.
He’d give a little nod or wave and quickly go to work;
He’d reach out to the handle, giving it a little jerk.
He wasn’t talkative as some who’re windy as a gale.
He knew that we were gathered ‘round, just waiting for the mail. 

Some silver boxes raised their flags – some mail was outward bound.
He’d reach inside and pull it out, look down, and rummage ‘round
Until he’d grabbed the mail that went in that specific box.
He’d stuff it in and close the hatch – no scratch on car, or knocks.
Then he’d edge forth a foot or two like ship about to dock,
So slow, it seemed, that he must be a man who milked the clock.
For one was waiting at the first for him to reach the last
‘Cause then the car had moved so far that he was safely past.
And first would grab the treasure like last item in a sale,
While rest were all impatiently still waiting for the mail.  

And then the precious moment came, like labor, then a birth,
Like Christmas morning with its gifts, its joy, and its mirth.
A check might come from cows or grain, or bale of cotton sold,
A letter from a distant kin with stories that were told.
The pictures in “Life” magazine brought world before our eyes;
And “Reader’s Digest” articles, with jokes an extra prize –
Just maybe a new Rockwell on the cover of the “Post”!
And I collected postage stamps; each letter was a host.
Since not a piece of paper in the box, for me, could fail,
None was more anxious than I was, when waiting for the mail.

—————————————————————————-

The photo is mine of the mailboxes and the place where we
waited on the mail.

———————————————————————————–

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.

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                Life-Sculpture

Chisel in hand stood a sculptor boy
   With his marble block before him,
And his eyes lit up with a smile of joy,
   As an angel dream passed o’er him. 

He carved the dream on that shapeless stone,
   With many a sharp incision;
With heaven’s own light the sculpture shone, –
   He’d caught that angel-vision. 

Children of life are we, as we stand
   With our lives uncarved before us,
Waiting the hour when, at God’s command,
   Our life-dream shall pass o’er us. 

If we carve it then on the yielding stone,
   With many a sharp incision,
It’s heavenly beauty shall be our own, –
   Our lives, that angel-vision.

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