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Archive for January, 2014

Afternoon In February

The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead. 

Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red. 

The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o’er the plain; 

While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows
Slowly passes
A funeral train. 

The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell; 

Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.

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Keep Looking!

Don’t ever
Wear your wedding band
While flying!

——————–

 

After A Day At The Quarry

Called rush hour?
Five o’clock traffic
Is not rushed.

——————–

 

Learn To Let Go

The time comes
One can’t go farther:
Lighten load.

——————–

Looking – photo by Adrian van Leen at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oaT1SvC/bird+snacks1

Quarry – photo by Adrian van Leen at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nooxON4/rock-wall+water+feature

Let Go – photo by Karunakar Rayker at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhoNhqw/Camel

——————–

* 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, 2014.

 

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             Read My Lips

‘Tis rude but I cannot stop yawning
When words spawn more words in their spawning.
   I’m giving a clue to
   The one who has no clue.
Why is it the light’s never dawning?

———————————————————

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

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                       Sonnet XVII

Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were fill’d with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, ‘This poet lies!
Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’
So should my papers (yellowed with their age)
Be scorn’d, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage
And stretched metre of an antique song.
   But were some child of yours alive that time,
   You should live twice – in it, and in my rhyme.

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The Colors Of A Drought

The color of a drought is brown:
   The green in grass is gone.
And cracks upon the dusty earth
   Open their mouths and yawn. 

The creeks and streams are narrower,
   With some completely dry.
And Robin sings a thirsty song,
   And Bambi gives a sigh. 

The color of a drought is blue;
   The sky has lost its white.
The clouds are few and far between
   Like left is far from right. 

And day by day, the sky is blue
   Like water used to be
When rivers ran like swift feet fly
   And gurgled happily. 

The brown and blue of drought can paint
   A drabness in the land,
And turn the joy of man and child
   To blues as dry as sand.


———————————————

link to other drought poems:
https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/10/16/the-drought-poems-by-dennis-lange-2/

———————————————

photo by Kevin Tuck at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/naGDvk0/Parched+ground

———————————————

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

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         A Day Of Sunshine

O gift of God!  O perfect day:
Whereon shall no man work, but play;
Whereon it is enough for me,
Not to be doing, but to be! 

Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every vein,
I feel the electric thrill, the touch
Of life, that seems almost too much. 

I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument. 

And over me unrolls on high
The splendid scenery of the sky,
Where through a sapphire sea the sun
Sails like a golden galleon. 

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
Whose steep sierra far uplifts
Its craggy summits white with drifts. 

Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms
The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!
Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
The fiery blossoms of the peach! 

O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?

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The thought of the first stanza reminded me
of the conclusion of my poem “It Is Enough”:
https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/10/13/it-is-enough-by-dennis-lange/

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From One Side To The Other

Rainbows arch
Above the river
Bridge’s arch.

———————

 

Colorful Country

Red bridges
Over the Yangze
Red China.

——————–

Side – photo by Bern Altman at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mBPPNEC/Newport+Rainbow

Colorful – photo by Stella Bogdanic at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nlO77Cg/bridge+over+Yangze

——————–

* 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, 2014.

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            The Hyenas

After the burial-parties leave
   And the baffled kites have fled;
The wise hyenas come out at eve
   To take account of our dead. 

How he died and why he died
   Troubles them not a whit.
They snout the bushes and stones aside
   And dig till they come to it. 

They are only resolute they shall eat
   That they and their mates may thrive,
And they know that the dead are safer meat
   Than the weakest thing alive. 

(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting,
   And a child will sometimes stand;
But a poor dead soldier of the king
   Can never lift a hand.)

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                   The Greatest

One champion stands as tallest of the tall
(Not Alexander or Napoleon) –
Who conquers self is greatest of them all. 

His name should go on ev’ry trophy, wall.
He rules himself; his anger does not run.
One champion stands as tallest of the tall. 

If Adam had control, there’d be no Fall.
And man would be in Eden still as one.
Who conquers self is greatest of them all. 

Man does not wear a chain or drag a ball
When all his inner battles he has won.
One champion stands as tallest of the tall. 

Some may be kings, but cannot wait, as Saul;
Some may wear weight of worry by the ton.
Who conquers self is greatest of them all. 

He is not slave to self or sinful call.
His glory is the glory of the sun.
One champion stands as tallest of the tall –
Who conquers self is greatest of them all. 

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5th stanza, Saul – I Sam.15:8-14

 ————————————————–

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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   The Poet And His Songs

As the birds come in the Spring,
   We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
   From depths of the air; 

As the rain comes from the cloud,
   And the brook from the ground;
As suddenly, low or loud,
   Out of silence a sound; 

As the grape comes to the vine,
   The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
   And the tide to the sea; 

As come the white sails of ships
   O’er the ocean’s verge;
As comes the smile to the lips,
   The foam to the surge; 

So come to the Poet his songs,
   All hitherward blow
From the misty realm, that belongs
   To the vast Unknown. 

His, and not his, are the lays
   He sings; and their fame
Is his, and not his; and the praise
   And the pride of a name. 

For voices pursue him by day,
   And haunt him by night,
And he listens, and needs must obey,
   When the Angel says, “Write!”

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