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Archive for November, 2013

A slumber did my spirit seal;
   I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
   The touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force;
   She neither hears nor sees,
Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,
   With rocks, and stones, and trees.

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Bright Moments

Yes, mostly
That’s the way it is:
Life sparkles.

——————–

Not sometimes.
And when it doesn’t –
Next sunrise!

——————–

photo by Alex Bruda at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nELxIAo/sunny+lake

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* 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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                 The Cross Of Snow

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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Red Lobster

(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.

————————————–

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

 

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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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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/
——————–

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

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Geoffrey Chaucer

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.

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English: Panthera tigris sumatran subspecies. ...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 


Tiger

The tiger pads the forest paths;
   He blends with blades of grass;
His camouflage – the stripes he bears,
   An orange and black, with class. 

He wears his whiskers like a sage
   And with his narrowed eyes,
He has a steady, knowing look,
   Appearing always wise. 

He has a regal bearing as
   He gazes at his thrall.
With muscled might and teeth and claws
   That draw respect from all. 

As Absalom to David was,
   As page to presidents:
If mighty lion’s the king of beasts,
   The tiger is the prince.

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

 

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                     Mnemosyne

It’s autumn in the country I remember. 

How warm a wind blew here about the ways!
And shadows on the hillside lay to slumber
During the long sun-sweetened summer-days. 

It’s cold abroad the country I remember. 

The swallows veering skimmed the golden grain
At midday with a wing aslant and limber;
And yellow cattle browsed upon the plain. 

It’s empty down the country I remember. 

I had a sister lovely in my sight:
Her hair was dark, her eyes were very sombre;
We sang together in the woods at night. 

It’s lonely in the country I remember. 

The babble of our children fills my ears,
And on our hearth I stare the perished ember
To flames that show all starry thro’ my tears. 

It’s dark about the country I remember. 

There are the mountains where I lived.  The path
Is slushed with cattle-tracks and fallen timber,
The stumps are twisted by the tempests’ wrath. 

But that I knew these places are my own,
I’d ask how came such wretchedness to cumber
The earth, and I to people it alone.

It rains across the country I remember.

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Horizontal

A picture
Of lines, lines, and lines –
Green, brown, clouds.

——————–

I see man
Drawing green and brown –
He’s land bound.

——————–

I must know
Who rode the sky, lined
The white clouds.

——————–

photo by Kevin Tuck at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nvdXLkC/Clouds+and+fields

——————–

* 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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