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Archive for July, 2013

 

 

Peafowls

Operate
Need to know basis
Knee to nose.

——————–

 

Job – Stool Pigeon

Off to work!
A little peck first.
Bye, honey.

——————–

 

 

Enjoying The Sunset

Ah, the light!
Like moths to candle –
Birds to sun.

——————–

Peafowls – photo by Miguel Saavedra at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mDzKvqa/Peafowl+portrait+1

Stool Pigeon – photo by Marja Flick-Buijs at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nVDZuT2/Kissing+pigeons

Sunset – photo by vivekchugh at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mf0suyk/Enjoying+the+view

——————–

* 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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             Love Is Strong As Death

“I have not sought Thee, I have not found Thee,
   I have not thirsted for Thee:
And now cold billows of death surround me,
Buffeting billows of death astound me, –
   Wilt Thou look upon, wilt Thou see
   Thy perishing me?” 

“Yea, I have sought thee, yea, I have found thee,
   Yea, I have thirsted for thee,
Yea, long ago with love’s bands I bound thee:
Now the Everlasting Arms surround thee, –
   Through death’s darkness I look and see
   And clasp thee to Me.”

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                          Sweet And Sour Hope

Hope is the distant moon that tugs the ocean’s tender heart,
That draws the tides to swell the shore with skill of Siren’s art.
Once it’s removed, it brings release; the tides go back to sea,
And all that’s left upon the shore is scattered, sad debris. 

But there are times when rising tides, coaxed by Hope’s constant call,
Will lift a grounded ship that’s caught by storm or sudden squall.
Hope then is like the ship that now will reach its destiny.
It brings a sailor home at times, fulfills expectancy. 

Hope’s in the smell of cooking food, as one steps through the door:
It smells like this, a bit like that; anticipations soar.
And then, hope’s like dessert, that’s said to be a lemon pie.
Hope soars until it comes – dark green; hope sours then to die.  

Hope is a sweet vanilla in the still-expectant air,
But vinegar when dashed, and dreams go crashing in despair.
Hope is a door that swings upon the hinges of the mind.
Sometimes it’s cruel and causes dread; at others, it is kind.

———————————————————————————-

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

 

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Fetches Paper; Reads It

Go outside?
Chase cats or mailman?
Too busy.

———————- 

 

 

 

Or, We Shoot

The password
Others must return –
Is a smile.

——————– 

 

 

 

Friends?

Good fences
Make, said Robert Frost,
Good neighbors.

———————

Fetches – photo by Gabriella Fabbri at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mtJD8h6/I%27m+like+an+actor%21

Shoot – photo by Marja Flick-Buijs at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/o0xbDTm/Toy+soldier

Friends – photo by Sanja Gjenero at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhALVgg/friends

——————–

* 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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Infantry waiting to attack during World War I

(Photo credit: National Library of Scotland)

     The Man He Killed

   “Had he and I but met
   By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
   Right many a nipperkin! 

   “But ranged as infantry,
   And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
   And killed him in his place. 

   “I shot him dead because –
   Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
   That’s clear enough; although 

   “He thought he’d ‘list, perhaps,
   Off-hand like – just as I –
Was out of work – had sold his traps –
   No other reason why. 

   “Yes; quaint and curious war is!
   You shoot a fellow down
You’d treat, if met where any bar is,
   Or help to half-a-crown.”

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United States penny, obverse, 2002

 

 

Pretty Penny

I picked a penny up today;
   It lay there on the ground
As if it were a fallen moon,
   As bright and just as round. 

I could not help but notice it –
   ‘Twas such a shiny thing.
Worth was not why I picked it up –
   What got me was the bling. 

It went into my pocket, but
   The value was so small
The effort made in bending down
   Was not worth it at all. 

Be careful, then, with Penny, Nick,
   Who have an empty smile,
Lest you end up with either one,
   When neither’s worth your while.

——————————————

* A U.S. penny is worth one cent.
A nickel is worth five cents.

——————————————

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

 

 

 

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English: DESTRUCTION_OF_SENNACHERIB'S_HOST

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)


The Destruction Of Sennacherib

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! 

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broken in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.

————————————————————–

I think I’ll vote for this one as the greatest historical
poem of all time.  Any other nominees?  the bard o t h

————————————————————–

II Kings 18:13 – II Kings 19, especially 19:35,36
* It is interesting that Sennacherib’s records speak of
conquering city after city but says, by contrast, that
he shut up Hezekiah like a bird in a cage.  He laid
seige to the city, but his army was struck down during
the night and he went back to Nineveh.

 

 

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A Simple Plan

Hehehe.
They pause and read sign –
We hi-jack.

———————


Slick Sliding

An iceboat
Slices ‘cross ice by
Cold wind’s slice.

——————–


Republicans and Democrats

Imagine
Five men each party –
Never goes.

——————–

Simple – photo by Nicolas Raymond at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nFb8eBq/Hi-Jacking+Hotspot+Sign

Slick – photo by Johnny Berg at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mjA8ndK/Iceboat

Republicans – photo by Christine van Dam at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/o3b1ijI/Ten+Men+Bike+Gradients

——————–

* 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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Self-portrait

Dante Gabriel Rossetti – self-portrait (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Lost Days

The lost days of my life until today,
What were they, could I see them on the street
Lie as they fell?  Would they be ears of wheat
Sown once for food but trodden into clay?
Or golden coins squandered and still to pay?
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet?
Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat
The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway? 

I do not see them here; but after death
God knows I know the faces I shall see,
Each one a murdered self, with low last breath,
“I am thyself, – what hast thou done to me?”
“And I – and I – thyself,” (lo! each one saith,)
“And thou thyself to all eternity!”

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………Confederate Graves

They fought and died and this is left –
The narrow space that’s for them cleft,
The ground they won while rest was lost
And this long rest is what it cost. 

The markers mark where men were placed,
Since memories of each erased
As mourners lived remaining years,
Remembering, with bitter tears. 

Then, like a distant cannon’s roar,
Their flowers faded, were no more,
E’en letters on the stones wear ‘way
With weather and the passing day. 

It was a life men could not bear
To part with, yet, they parted there
With slaves that were the warring cause.
And though there was the slightest pause,
Most men went on to live quite well,
Less why men suffered shot and shell.
Less men who suffered shot and shell.

———————————————–

photo by rkirbycom (Roger) at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nVrgvTE/Confederate+Headstone

———————————————–

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

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