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Archive for December, 2013

                    The Year

What can be said in New Year rhymes,
That’s not been said a thousand times?
The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.
We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.
We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings.
We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.
We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that’s the burden of the year.

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Rainbow Of Rainbows

While feeding,
Rainbow lorikeets
Form rainbow.

——————–

 

Air Traffic Control To Eagle:

Winter flights –
Before a takeoff,
De-ice wings.

——————–

 

 

Pelican

An expert –
Gray, old, and tested
Fisherman.

——————-

Rainbow – photo by Dez Pain at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mPGQJbE/Rainbow+Lorikeets+Feeding

Air Traffic – photo by Victor Voronov at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/noHGZJG/Golden+Eagle

Pelican – photo by Agnes Scholiers at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nIsJTAE/Pelican

——————–

* 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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                             A Code Of Morals

Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order,
And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border,
To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught
His wife the working of the Code that set the miles at naught. 

And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair;
So Cupid and Apollo linked, per heliograph, the pair.
At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise-
At e’en, the dying sunset bore her husband’s homilies. 

He warned her ‘gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold,
As much as ‘gainst the blandishments paternal of the old;
But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs)
That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs. 

‘Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, that tittupped on the
way,
When they beheld a heliograph temptestuously at play;
They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burned
So stopped to take the message down – and this is what they
learned:

“Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot” twice.  The General
swore.
“Was ever General Officer addressed as ‘dear’ before?
“My Love,’ I’ faith!  ‘My Duck,’ Gadzooks!  ‘My darling
popsywop!’
Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountain top?” 

The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the gilded Staff were still,
As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the
hill;
For, clear as summer’s lightning flare, the husband’s warning ran:
“Don’t dance or ride with General Bangs – a most immoral man.” 

(At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise –
But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.)
With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife
Some interesting details of the General’s private life. 

The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the shining Staff were still,
And red and ever redder grew the General’s shaven gill.
And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not):
“I think we’ve tapped a private line.  Hi! Threes about there!
Trot!”
 

All honor unto Bangs, for ne’er did Jones thereafter know
By word or act official who read off that helio.;
But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan
They know the worthy General as “that most immoral man.”

 

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      Sonnet 42 – The Luck Of Skill

In game or life, beginning hands may set
A path to walk upon, a hill to climb.
Be careful, though, of how you place your bet
The first is not the all, nor end of time. 

One’s pocket aces still may see defeat
By one with lesser cards who’s simply bold.
The total of a tale’s the tasty treat –
One starting fast may later simply fold. 

The one who starts behind may rally, build,
And make the most of what seems all too small.
E’en that which is the worst, when one is skilled,
May then be conquered in the longer haul. 

This signifies who wears the champion’s belt:
It’s what one does with what he has been dealt.

———————————————————–

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

 

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I fear a Man of frugal Speech –
I fear the Silent Man –
Haranguer – I can overtake –
Or Babbler – entertain –

But He who weigheth – While the Rest –
Expend their furthest pound –
Of this Man – I am wary –
I fear that He is Grand –

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For The Taking

There is gold
For everyone.
Look for it!

——————– 

The true wealth
Pours into a man,
Warms the heart.

——————– 

A burden
Is money, taken
To the bank.

——————– 

The true wealth,
One can take with him
To bed, sleep.

——————–

photo by Adrian van Leen at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mmtCDSK/black+and+gold

——————–

* 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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Monastery

In a world where few will listen
To the Christ they say they follow
E’en in those whose lips Him christen
We find lives both dead and hollow. 

He it was who sent them going
Into all the world for preaching,
Men might all then Him be knowing
By that going and beseeching.
 

Like a bird that won’t stop nesting
Monks are men who’ve curled up, staying
Far away from cruel world’s testing.
Go they don’t; they’re not obeying.

——————————————–

photo by Heriberto at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/obZ9JVu/Monastery

——————————————–

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

 

 

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Nicholas Afonsky's Little Annie Rooney with sc...

Nicholas Afonsky’s Little Annie Rooney with script by Brandon Walsh (September 27, 1936). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Little Annie Rooney

A winning way, a pleasant smile,
Dress’d so neat but quite in style,
Merry chaff your time to while,
Has little Annie Rooney.
Ev’ry ev’ning, rain or shine,
I make a call twixt eight and nine,
On her who shortly will be mine,
Little Annie Rooney. 

   Chorus:
      She’s my sweetheart, I’m her beau,
      She’s my Annie, I’m her Joe,
      Soon we’ll marry, never to part,
      Little Annie Rooney is my sweetheart. 

The parlor’s small but neat and clean,
And set with taste so seldom seen,
And you can bet the household queen
Is little Annie Rooney!
The fire burns cheerfully and bright,
As a family circle round, each night
We form and every one’s delight
Is little Annie Rooney. 

   Chorus 

We’ve been engaged close to a year,
The happy time is drawing near,
I’ll wed the one I love so dear,
Little Annie Rooney!
My friends declare I am in jest,
Until the time comes will not rest,
But one who knows its value best,
Is little Annie Rooney. 

   Chorus 

When married we’ll so happy be,
I love her and she loves me,
Happier wife you’ll never see,
Than Little Annie Rooney.
In a little cozy home,
No more from her I’ll care to roam;
She’ll greet you all when-e’er you come,
My little Annie Rooney. 

   Chorus

———————————————–

The song is from the 1800’s.  The comic strip began in 1927.

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Owwwl!

Angry bird.
Looks like he just had
Bad haircut.

——————–

If, like him,
You stayed up all night –
Red eyes, too.

——————–

photo by Agnes Scholiers at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nIJNsMY/Owl

——————–

* 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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                                Troopin’

Troopin’, troopin’, troopin’ to the sea:
‘Ere’s September come again – the six-year men are free.
O leave the dead be’ind us, for they cannot come away
To where the ship’s a-coalin’ up that takes us ‘ome to-day. 

   We’re goin’ ‘ome, we’re goin’ ‘ome,
   Our ship is at the shore,
   An’ you must pack your ‘aversack,
   For we won’t come back no more.
   Ho, don’t you grieve for me,
   My lovely Mary-Ann,
   For I’ll marry you yit on a fourp’ny bit
   As a time-expired man! 

The Malabar’s in ‘arbor with the Jumner at ‘er tail,
An’ the time-expired’s waitin’ of ‘is orders for to sail,
Ho! the weary waitin’ when on Khyber ‘ills we lay,
But the time-expired’s waitin’ of ‘is orders ‘ome to-day. 

They’ll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold an’ wet an’ rain,
All wearin’ Injian cotton kit, but we will not complain;
They’ll kill us of pneumonia – for that’s their little way –
But damn the chills and fever, men, we’re goin’ ‘ome to-day! 

Troopin’, troopin’, winter’s round again!
See the new draf’s pourin’ in for the old campaign;
Ho, you poor recruities, but you’ve got to earn your pay –
What’s the last from Lunnon, lads? We’re goin’ there to-day. 

Troopin’, troopin’, give another cheer –
‘Ere’s to English women an’ a quart of English beer;
The Colonel an’ the regiment an’ all who’ve got to stay,
Gawd’s mercy strike ‘em gentle – Whoop! we’re goin’ ‘ome to-day. 

   We’re goin’ ‘ome, we’re goin’ ‘ome,
   Our ship is at the shore,
   An’ you must pack your ‘aversack,
   For we won’t come back no more.
   Ho, don’t you grieve for me,
   My lovely Mary-Ann,
   For I’ll marry you yit on a fourp’ny bit
   As a time-expired man!

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