November | 2013 | The Bard on the Hill

In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
   A gentle face – the face of one long dead –
   Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
   The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white
   Never through martyrdom of fire was led
   To its repose; nor can in books be read
   The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
   That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
   Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
   These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
   And seasons, changeless since the day she died.

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My Salad Days by Dennis Lange

Posted in My Poems, tagged acid reflux, bard on the hill, cheesy cheese biscuit, Dennis Lange, fried shrimp, hamburgers, lemon juice, My Salad Days, poems, poetry, rabbit, Red Lobster on November 25, 2013| Leave a Comment »

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My Salad Days

It was Red Lobster where I found
The way to like a salad.
Which was a minor miracle,
Enough to write this ballad.

For I, a rabbit, never was;
My style was never leafy.
I’ll take hamburgers ev’ry day,
The foods that are more beefy.

And so that fateful Lobster night,
When salad came with order
Instead of dry, the waiter said,
“Try lemon juice aboard her.”

And so I did. To my surprise,
The lemon made it tasty!
And I declared, that from that day,
The lemons would escape tea.

But then, alas! to my dismay
I found that reflux acid
Was triggered by the green and juice –
My lettuce life grew flaccid.

I then reflected on my prime –
My salad days weren’t lasting.
I think three days were all there were,
And now I’m salad fasting.

But I go to Red Lobster still…
And salad? I don’t miss it.
For, after all, the menu has
Fried shrimp and cheesy biscuit.

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My Holiday, My Paradise by Emily Dickinson

Posted in C-D, Poems of Other Poets, tagged Emily Dickinson, foreign ear, heaven, paradise, poems, poetry, saints, they pronounce my name on November 24, 2013| Leave a Comment »

My Holiday, My Paradise

Me – come! My dazzled face
In such a shining place!
Me – hear! My foreign Ear
The sounds of Welcome – there!

The Saints forget
Our bashful feet –

My holiday, shall be
That They – remember me –
My Paradise – the fame
That They – pronounce my name.

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Bridge Haiku by Dennis Lange

Posted in My Haiku, tagged afraid of heights, bridge, Haikus, look no hands, poems, poetry, show off, troubled waters on November 23, 2013| 3 Comments »

Who Cares About The H2O?

This the bridge
Oe’er troubled waters?
I’M troubled!

——————–

Well, Maybe Both

Not afraid
Of heights. I’m afraid
Of the cracks.

——————–

Sight Advice, Not Sound Advice

Don’t look down.
How can I heed that
And step right?

——————–

Grrrr!

Kid ahead:
“Just look, Ma! No hands!”
The show-off.

——————–

photo by Marcelo Terraza at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mmfAdvU/%3E+Brigde

——————–

* 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/
——————–

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Chaucer by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Posted in I-L, Poems of Other Poets, tagged an old man in a lodge, bard on the hill, Canterbury Tales, Chaucer, Geoffrey, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, I hear the crowing cock, odors of ploughed field or flowery mead, poems, poetry on November 22, 2013| Leave a Comment »

Geoffrey Chaucer (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Chaucer

An old man in a lodge within a park;
   The chamber walls depicted all around
   With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,
   And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark.
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
   Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
   He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
   Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
   The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
   Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note
   Of lark and linnet, and from every page
   Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead.